VIII. Choice
Real happiness is cheap enough, yet how dearly we pay for its counterfeit.
~ Hosea Ballou
After making breakfast for Loki that morning, Natasha heads upstairs to the kitchen once he takes his leave. Tony and Steve bicker like an old married couple over toast and eggs, and Pepper gives Natasha a knowing look as she sits beside her.
"Rough night?" Pepper asks.
Natasha panics for a split-second, wondering if Pepper sees the bruises decorating her wrists before she remembers she's wearing a long-sleeved shirt to conceal them. Pepper must be referring to the tinge of red in her eyes. "Oh, yeah. Bad dream." She shrugs to hide her embarrassment.
"It's an off-night when someone here doesn't wake up screaming," Pepper quips, stabbing a sausage link with her fork.
Understatement of the century.
Clint stops Natasha in the hall later as she makes her way back to her room. "You, uh, you coming to movie night tonight?" he asks, feigning casual.
She doesn't break stride. This is not a conversation she wants to have, because she knows Clint can sniff out any miniscule change in her behavior. And if he figures out that Loki is the cause of it all... "I always do. As long as we don't have to watch The Notebook or any of those shlocky romance movies."
"But you loved Titanic."
She frowns. "Titanic isn't exclusively a romantic movie. It's a historical piece."
Clint knows not to argue this line of logic with her. "Well, if you don't want to watch The Wizard of Oz again, you might have to have a word with Steve."
Natasha shudders, her entire body getting into the act. "Yes, I'll have to speak with him about that," she says, swallowing back panic as she arrives at her door.
"You'd tell me if something was bugging you, right?" Clint asks.
"You know the answer to that."
"Because, I don't know, you just seem...off lately."
Proving his theory, it takes her a few tries to get the key into the lock. "I'm fine."
"See, that?" he says, referring to her shaky hands. "That's the opposite of fine. Talk to me, Nat." She heaves a sigh, opening the door and letting him inside. This was not how she planned to spend her afternoon. "What's on your mind?"
"It's nothing you can fix."
"I can listen, if that will help."
She looks at his pleading face and feels a pang of regret that she didn't fall for Clint. This would all be so much simpler if she had.
"I never pegged you as a flowers type of girl," he teases, noticing the vase on the table.
"I'm not, really. They were a"-she searches for the word-"gift."
"From a man?"
She rolls her eyes. "God, you sound like Pepper."
Clint laughs weakly before taking her hands in his. "You know you can tell me anything, right? No matter how awful you think it is." She feels the burn of his skin on hers but only craves cold, her fingers squeezing his as she tries to ignite the fire between them, hoping it could be real.
She slips her hands out of his grasp, disappointed at the lack of electricity between them. "I told you, it's nothing for you to worry about-"
His eyes are nowhere near her face. She follows his line of sight, realizes with horror that her sleeves are pushed back enough to hint at the fresh, dark bruises around her wrists.
Dark fury smolders behind Clint's eyes, and Natasha can only imagine the murderous thoughts running through his head. "Tell me who did this, and I'll put an arrow through his eye," he growls through clenched teeth.
"Clint, don't-"
"Is that what you've been hiding all this time?" He pushes back her sleeves to expose more of the bruises. "Jesus, Nat." He shuts his eyes, his body quaking with rage that needs an outlet. "I'll fucking kill him."
"No."
"I'll fucking kill him-"
"No! Clinton Francis Barton, you lay one hand on him and you'll never sleep again." He looks at the floor, chagrined by her scolding. "This isn't as bad as it looks, okay? He's just strong, that's all. Like Thor or Rogers...or Banner."
Clint shakes his head, still breathing heavily. "He's a monster, Nat. Look at yourself."
"No, he isn't!" she snaps defensively. "He's learning how to control his strength. It's going to be fine."
He stares down at his feet. "Do you trust him?"
It takes her a second to answer. "I think I do."
Clint makes a face. "You think? Nat, if this guy is that strong, you're gonna need a hell of a lot more than 'I think.'"
"I know." Thinking about what Loki might do if she rejects him makes her shudder.
"Just be careful, okay? I trust your judgement, but that doesn't mean I can't still worry, y'know?"
"I think worrying contradicts the very definition of trusting my judgement."
"It's not you I don't trust." She shrugs, unable to argue that. "Do I know this guy?"
"Clint."
"I'm just curious."
"You're not going to follow him with a full quiver, are you?"
"Of course not. I only need one shot."
"Clint." She sort of growls.
"Okay, okay. I won't push you." He concedes, and they sit in comfortable silence before Natasha looks at him again.
"There is something I want to try," she says softly, seeing the silent agreement in his eyes. He nods, licks his lips, as if reading her mind. Natasha leans in and brings his mouth to hers. His lips are soft, warm, hot as they glide against hers, and she tries not to think of the different set of lips she'd rather have here. His hand cups the back of her skull with gentle pressure, holding her to him as they mirror each other's movements. She searches for the spark, for the crackle of electricity that rockets up and down her spine when it's Loki who's kissing her.
No spark. No fire.
She grunts angrily, and Clint mistakes it for a moan, pleased that she's responded to him. His tongue licks lovingly at the corner of her mouth, and she crawls into his lap, yearning to feel the familiar fire. Out of all the people she knows, Clint would be the one to ignite the spark.
His hand slides up her shirt, his fingers trailing fire along her spine. He touches her with ease, his limbs languid against hers as he moves. The taut tension in his muscles isn't there the way it is with Loki, that careful precision that prevents him from crushing her bones. With his mouth still fluttering kisses over her lips, his other hand grazes up her stomach, and his thumb rolls over her nipple through the fabric of her bra.
Nothing.
Guilt strikes her like the lash of a whip. She pulls away, detaching their mouths, frustration lodging in her stomach. "I'm sorry."
Clint's brow furrows with concern. "It's all right, Nat. Sometimes you just don't feel that spark, y'know?"
His words pierce through her heart like one of his finely-aimed arrows, and she bites the inside of her cheek to quell the tears that threaten to form. "Yeah, I guess not." Clint's pain seems too high a price to pay for her own happiness. "I shouldn't have done that." She climbs off of him, needing to put distance between them.
"Then why did you?" His voice is soft, but Natasha still hears the accusation buried there, even if that's not his intention.
Nausea sinks in her stomach. "I had to be sure..."
"So, wait, you were just confused whether or not you really like this guy?" To her surprise, Clint laughs. "Thank God! I thought it was something serious, like you were being stalked or blackmailed or something!"
Anger begins to seep in at his reaction. She's just hurt him irrevocably, and he's laughing about it? She smacks his arm. "What the fuck? Why aren't you angry with me?"
"Why should I be? I was worried that your life was in danger, Nat! This is nothing," he says with a reassuring smile. Natasha closes her eyes to block out his misplaced joy. "There's holes in your life that I can't fill. I'm okay with that."
She winces inwardly, feeling wretched at his regard. "Stop trying to make me feel better."
He chuckles. "If you insist." Clint stands up, his feet carrying him to the door. "Just don't shut me out, okay?"
She nods absently, swallowing back something hard in her throat. "I won't."
#
Thor notices a change in Loki's demeanor throughout their weeks together, most notably before returning to Asgard. Loki always meets his brother with a joyous glimmer in his eye reminiscent of his youth, as if someone's pulled the toxic lead out of his soul and pumped something in that's pure and beautiful. Thor also notices the way that joy drains-slowly, like a crawling death-while Loki bides his time in Asgard.
Thor finds Loki in a calming meadow surrounded by the labyrinth of trees known as the Forest of Sigurd. Brilliant golden and silver flowers gleam in the buttery sunlight, and the grass ripples in waves with the wind. Loki's stretched out among the flowers, his face tranquil as he soaks in the warmth of the sun. Thor wonders how his brother finds peace here, if he has a fond memory of this place in which to swim, or if he simply enjoys the sounds of the rustling trees and the heat of the sun.
Thor tries to be stealthy as he approaches his brother, but Loki hears his heavy footsteps against the grass. "What is it, Thor?" he asks, still staring up at the cottony clouds floating in the azure sky.
"I've come to offer you relief."
"From what?"
Thor sits beside him, his brows knit in confusion. "Staying in Asgard ails you, does it not?"
"I suppose you could make that assumption."
Thor wonders what other infirmities torment his brother. "I see now that you are unhappy here, and that your travels to Midgard are much more rife with pleasure." Loki smiles wryly; if Thor only knew. "Would you like to make a more permanent arrangement?"
Loki opens his eyes, startled by the sudden goodwill, benevolence he knows he does not deserve. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you would not be bound to return to Asgard unless you wished to."
Stay in Midgard? It was incomprehensible, impossible. "Odin would not wish it so."
"Remember that I am king, and my word decrees above all." Loki thinks about this for a moment, the great lie of freedom offered to him. "I do not believe you are truly lost, Loki. I believe that there is hope for you. If you have found happiness in Midgard, I must allow you to pursue it," Thor continues. "However, the decision is in your hands."
It takes Loki the length of one heartbeat to make his decision, but he pretends to consider it for Thor's sake; casting away his homeland so quickly would no doubt wound his brother. Loki sits up, plucking a flower from the grass and twirling the stem between his thin fingers. "If I agree to this, where would you suggest I stay?"
"With me, of course, and my comrades."
"I doubt the people of Asgard will have much of a quarrel with my absence, but I cannot see your companions inviting me with open arms."
Thor grins. "I have my ways to convince them, and they trust my judgement. If I say you are no threat, they shall believe it so."
Loki lets himself indulge in the greatest wish fulfillment: what if Thor is right? What if he's been so stubbornly convinced he's irredeemable that the truth echoes in his ears like a lie?
"Well, what are we waiting for?" Loki asks with a smirk, his heart and hopes soaring. "Work your magic."
