Whoa, this chapter turned out a lot longer than I thought...I am debating spacing out my chapter updates a little more because 1) I'm a jerkwad 2)I'm afraid of catching up with what I've written and then updates will be even MORE stretched out, and 3) I like unpredictability.
THE AMAZING WASIANGAL HAS MADE ME A LOVELY FANART! She drew the scene from several chapters back of Loki and the wolves and HERE IT IS PLEASE CHECK IT OUT BECAUSE IT'S SO GORGEOUS AND SHE IS AMAZING. hobbit-lassie .deviantart (dotcomslash) #/d5hy92x
Thank you all so much for continuing reading this story! Especially to those who review; kisses and shawarma for you! You guys make me love writing this story even more.
But anyway, STAY TUNED FOR NEXT CHAPTER in which the plot finally starts rolling.
Loki's hands were pressed against the glass as he watched the streets below him. It amazed him, frankly, that he could see the outside world in all its bustling chaos and unpredictability and not hear a single sound of it. Tony was proud of that, claiming that his windows and walls were perfectly soundproof, but all Loki could think of as he pressed against that thin barrier between him and freedom was a cage. This tower, this castle of sorts, was no different than imprisonment. He didn't know fresh air unless he swindled his way out in the dead of night, and even then he could only sit at the outer deck, letting his feet dangle over the edge, so high above the rest of the world that he might as well not be part of it.
Good, he reasoned. Good. It wasn't like he was part of Midgard anyway. No point in playing charades.
And yet, he felt his mind suffocate. He felt all the walls squeeze his body until his lungs sputtered for air. His skin felt too tight, his clothes too stiff, his room too daunting. He could hardly walk a hundred meters away from his door, whether it be because there was nowhere further he could go or because his legs refused to bring him further. He was a baby kept under watch, a disciplined child, a beast kept on a leash, and he wanted out.
He forced himself to turn away from the window, gritting his teeth. Why couldn't he heal faster? Ever since that—that thing—was sewn into his chest he could feel himself losing control over his own body. His magic spluttered and failed him and his body remained war-torn and unpredictably weak. He didn't want to continue leeching off the help of the Avengers—the Avengers of all mortals—and yet he was stranded on their realm. Like a bird in a deep and narrow well.
"You look cheerful."
He turned his head to the door, his eyes narrowed. Of course, the balm to his suffering.
"I see you've given up the wheelchair completely," said Natasha.
Loki glanced at the discarded wheelchair in the corner of the room. It was a shameful invention, no different than a leash or a baby carriage.
Natasha opened the door wider as she stepped into his room. Loki eyed it hungrily.
"How have you been?" she said.
Why did she care?
"Looks like you're healing even without your magic," said Natasha. "That's a good sign."
Was this condescension? If so, he needed nothing of it. He needed nothing at all. Only to get out of this gilded cage and go—go anywhere.
Where, he did not know. Not anywhere on Midgard. Not Asgard, where there was nothing. Not any of the realms, or anywhere in between. He bit the tip of his tongue when he realized—he should have known—there really was nowhere to go.
All of a sudden the concept of leaving this cage was both enviable and painful. After he healed (If), then what? To Asgard, where he would be imprisoned again by the king and queen who so hated him now? Not to death; he was never so lucky. To return into Thanos' clutches so the insane titan could claim what was his?
The thought behind the latter made him nauseous.
Natasha sat on the edge of Loki's bed. Loki furrowed his eyebrows and poked her hard on the shoulder.
"I get to sit wherever I want," she said.
Loki couldn't help but smirk. She read him well, he thought both fondly and grudgingly. Perhaps if the rest of the universe was as sharp as she was he and practically every living creature he came across wouldn't be on such cross terms.
He poked her harder and she rolled her eyes. She patted the spot on the bed beside her and he turned away.
What was she doing here?
"Just to let you know," said Natasha, "Thor honored your request."
Loki frowned quizzically.
"He instructed the ravens not to tell your parents about you," said Natasha. "Not that either of us approve of that, but if you care so much about it…"
Loki blinked before looking away, a little surprised that Thor actually acquiesced. He never expected the crown prince Thor to disobey the All-Father, especially orders concerning Loki. Highly doubtful that it made a difference, though; what would the All-Father do with information about the ex-son he tossed aside?
"You finished with this?" She reached to the bedside table and picked up the copy of Midsummer Night's Dream. "You're inhaling these."
Loki frowned and took back the book. How did she confuse his perusing of books as breathing them into his lungs?
"It's slang," she said with a crooked smile.
Well, that made everything more understandable, didn't it?
"You remind me of Puck," said Natasha.
Loki turned to give an incredulous face at Natasha. Him, the famed trickster, the god of mischief, compared to that little pixie that ruined love lives and soured milk? That was degradation in itself.
"You do," said Natasha, noting his look of annoyance accurately. "Don't tell me you've never done something like he did before."
He rubbed his hands vigorously as if to conjure pixie dust and mimicked blowing it into her face. She snorted and waved her hand.
"You're a child," she said.
Everything is childish to you, he thought. Love is for children. I am a child. And yet, love is nothing to me. Don't you see the paradox in here, little spider?
She checked the time on the clock hanging on the wall. "I just wanted to make sure you haven't broken a window or anything yet. I need to go out and run some errands."
He frowned. She had broken into his peace, invaded his personal bubble, only to flit away in less than five minutes? Perhaps she was the true Robin Goodfellow who shattered the ennui only to disappear in a wisp of smoke, leaving him still thirsty.
She made her way toward the door and he watched her go. The yawing door made him ravenous—just one step closer to stepping away, breaking out of this paralysis. It was all he wanted; to walk on his own, go to wherever he pleased, not because he was trying to hide or run away but because he could. But he was a prisoner in the most literal sense; he had been nearly his entire life.
He didn't notice that he was following her out before she turned around to face him just as she was at the doorway. He stopped in his tracks, hesitantly stubborn. She raised her eyebrows at him.
"And where do you think you're going?"
Loki only pursed his lips and remained rooted to the spot. Her eyes grazed over to the window overlooking the city. He guiltily let his gaze follow, only to feel her attention revert sharply back to him.
"That's not part of the plan," she said.
Since when did anything go according to plan? The Norns jeered at plans, shredding them to make paper chains for their own pleasure.
"Besides," she said. "SHIELD definitely will not authorize it."
He should have expected it, but he felt crestfallen anyway. It must have shown on his face because Natasha groaned inwardly and shook her head.
"Both you and Thor have the most forlorn kicked puppy dog look," she said.
Loki brought it up a notch. Widen the eyes slightly, play with the eyebrows, part the lips in a sad sigh—he had perfected this long since his youth. Natasha put a hand to her forehead and gave an exasperated grunt.
"You know, if you collapse halfway out the door, I am definitely not helping you back," she said. "Come on then."
So the infamously apathetic Black Widow can be defeated after all. Loki hid a smirk as he followed her out of the door, keeping check that his stride remained steady and tall to prove her wrong. His knees shook but at least they did not crumple under his weight.
"You are going to be the death of everyone, including yourself," said Natasha. "And funny how out of all the situations I could have with you, the only time I say that to you is in sarcasm."
They rode the elevator to the first floor, both distracting themselves by watching the numbers flash above the door as they passed them. Loki stole a sidelong glance at Natasha. Granted, when he pictured finding a way out of this tower, she wasn't part of the equation. No matter; to be frank he wouldn't have the slightest idea of where to go if he was alone.
The moment they reached the first floor to the Stark Tower, SHIELD agents positioned at the front door armed themselves immediately. Loki hung back, his heart jumping when their weapons were pointed straight toward him. Natasha put a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Relax, boys, he's with me," said Natasha.
"The prisoner isn't authorized to leave the tower," one of the agents said.
A cold chill ran down Loki's spine. He always suspected he had little if not zero freedom at all in the tower, but to hear himself be labeled as a prisoner again made his nerves clench. He pictured the very agents before him disemboweling him or strangling him with his own spine and it took more of his strength than he was ready to admit to keep his composure.
She must have felt the tension under her fingers because she tightened her grip—almost reassuringly.
"He's not a threat," said Natasha. "Besides, his magic's partially capped. If he tried to do anything, he'd end up killing himself."
"Agent Romanoff—"
"I think I can handle him," she said in such a voice that struck the men dumb and obedient. They stepped aside, giving them passage through the glass doors. Loki couldn't help but be impressed by her sheer power. Here was this woman who hadn't any official title of authority to flaunt, twisting orders into her favor as if it was effortless.
He could feel the other agents' icy glares as he passed, however. He pretended he was impervious to their dagger eyes, despite the itching he felt inside of him as he was scrutinized. Her grip softened on his shoulder as they walked outside into the streets of New York City. The roar of the traffic and energetic buzz of the streets startled him and he stopped dead in his tracks. Natasha looked back toward him.
"Everything okay?" she said.
He nodded. (The growling engine, the rising murmur of voices, it sounded like a war)
"Follow me," said Natasha. "I know where to go."
He nodded and followed her down the sidewalk, his body stiff as he tried to wheedle his way past the crowd. He could still feel her hand on his sleeve and he let his mind sink into it, nestling into her warm palm and far from the outside unknown. He let his eyes wander—this city was far from the majesty of Asgard with its gray stone mountains for buildings and their metallic beasts that sputtered smoke instead of breath. People moved with no regard for each other, as if they were a singular moving animal minding their own business. Few lifted their eyes to say hello to the other, caught in their own little world despite being part of a grander scheme. Humans—he could never understand them.
"You never really walked the streets of New York City, did you?" said Natasha. "You sort of opted to fly above it. Well, it's pretty fine down here too."
She should see Asgard, thought Loki. She would swallow those words in an instant.
But the thought of that once-home made something in Loki hurt, so he banished the entire realm from his mind.
"Considered the most artistic city in the world, too. Or, at least, one of the top ones," said Natasha. She pointed to a street on their left. "Broadway Street. The epitome of performing arts. Musicals, plays, operas, everything. Ever seen one?"
He frowned slightly. The theatre arts weren't uncommon where he was from (not home), but he did not understand what a musical was. The gigantic billboards over the entrances were glowing with fantastical pictures and titles that boggled his mind.
"I feel like Les Miserables is up your alley," said Natasha. "Honestly, I don't know if you'd like comedies."
Loki raised an eyebrow at Natasha. Did she forget that he was the trickster god? It wasn't as if he didn't possess a single ounce of a sense of humor. She caught his look of skeptical incredulity and smirked.
"Well, you're going to have to prove it if you think you've got a funny bone," she said.
He rolled his eyes. Someday she ought to hear the story of when he tricked Thor into dressing like a bride in order to—
No. That was the past that involved a dead brother and a false prince. Those were mere fairy tales, nothing worth remembering anymore. Perhaps it was true; the mischievous prince was long dead.
They walked in silence; he knew she kept her pace slow because his walking was still shaky. He kept his eyes watching straight ahead, careful not to betray a single moment of weakness even though each step was tedious.
"Those are apartments," said Natasha when she noticed Loki peering up curiously at the tall brick buildings. "People live in there. They each have their own several rooms in that building. Since the city's so crowded, there isn't room for individual houses."
Humans were very, very odd.
He noticed a shop from the corner of his eyes and slowed his pace. There were animals at the window—small, furry animals pawing at their bars. Gentle puppies and kittens pacing back and forth in their cages. He frowned, tilting his head. Was it a menagerie of sorts? Maybe they had horses in there, or wolves.
"What are you looking at?" said Natasha.
Loki started moving toward the shop, only to feel a hand roughly pull him off the street. He stumbled back, bewildered, just before a rush of metal monsters rushed past him on the road. He froze, half-fallen on the curb as a stampede trampled past him. Did humans have absolutely no control over their beasts even in the city?
"You're going to get yourself killed," Natasha said through gritted teeth, pulling him back onto his feet. "Look both ways before you cross a street. Drivers here will not be afraid to hit you."
Mindless beasts roaming across a crowded Midgardian metropolis. Of course it made perfect sense to everyone except Loki. He brushed himself off immediately, feigning indifference, although his heart still pumped wildly in his chest. Just for good measure, though, he let himself steal glances right and left before crossing to the other side. Natasha tailed closely behind.
When he reached the shop, he bent down at the window, frowning at the animals in their cages. Was this a Midgardian version of a farm? He turned to shoot a confused glance at Natasha.
"Have you never heard of a pet shop before?" she said.
He shook his head.
"It's a place you buy pets," she deadpanned.
He straightened and crossed his arms stubbornly, waiting for a proper answer. She gave a crooked smile.
"You know, how people will buy an animal companion, like a horse or a hunting dog," she said. "Except people here don't usually buy pets to use them for another purpose. Mostly for pleasure."
He turned back to the window. A yellow-furred puppy caught sight of him and pressed his wee black nose through the bars of its cage. It strangely reminded Loki of Thor. He reached toward the door and pulled it open, wincing when he heard the ding of a bell overhead when he entered.
"Are you serious?" said Natasha. Laughter fringed her voice.
The store was kept uncannily pristine for a barn of animals. Yelps of puppies wrestling with each other and the disgruntled mews of kittens called out from every corner. Gaggles of children were crowded around a cage of small rodents (The sign read 'hamsters,' though there was nothing resembling swine whatsoever in them), cooing with delight. A young couple was holding a tiny puppy in their arms.
Loki suddenly realized how very small this shop was and he shrank back. Natasha poked him hard on his spine.
"Everything all right?"
He nodded. He wouldn't let this make a fool of him so easily. He let his gaze wander toward the cages of black kittens that looked particularly lonely. They shared a living space with other kittens with snow-dusted paws, but they crowded in a corner untouched. He lowered himself onto his knees to get a better view of them.
"Hello, dears!" A middle-aged woman with glasses nearly as large as her face came to them. Loki jumped slightly at her sudden appearance. Natasha patted his shoulder. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Just looking," said Natasha, crouching next to Loki. She saw how he eyed the kittens with remote interest. "Do you want to hold them?"
Loki gave a confused glance at Natasha. When he gave no answer, she shrugged and looked up to the shopkeeper.
"Do you mind if we see these kittens for a bit, please?" she said.
"Oh, sure, no problem. If we could have your driver's license, please?"
Natasha pursed her lip but pulled out her identification card (Natalie Rushman, it read) to give to the shopkeeper. In return, the shopkeeper reached into the cage and gently lifted two of the black kittens curled in the corner out of their nest. She handed one to Natasha and the other to Loki. Loki hunched his shoulders, wary of touching the delicate creature.
"Go ahead," said Natasha. She raised her eyebrows, her face saying, I can at least trust you with kittens, can't I?
Loki swallowed hard and offered his hands to the shopkeeper. The fluffy kitten was placed into his arms and he shuddered. He could feel the gentle, delicate skull against his hand and noticed how incredibly large his pale hands were in comparison to the tiny baby.
(Oh, young child, how lucky you are.)
He closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe. In and out, in and out. He could feel the kitten's breath against his fingers and kept his own in sync with it. It was alive. The creature he held in his hand was alive and well. It was all right.
Mew. He opened his eyes again, a little perplexed. The kitten was staring up at Loki with brilliant bright eyes. He lifted it closer to his face. There were no blemishes, no mutilations or imperfections, and his heart relaxed. It raised a paw and batted him on the nose. He drew back slightly, befuddled. Natasha laughed.
"Never knew you to be a cat lady," she said.
The cat clung to the front of his shirt with its minute claws, stretching until it climbed onto his shoulder. Loki bent down slightly so it wouldn't fall as it traversed across his sharp shoulder blades. He almost smiled when he felt its soft tail tickle his chin. It mewed into his ear and burrowed its dark face into the crook of his neck. It tickled him and he almost laughed.
He lifted it from his shirt and held it in his lap again, marveling at its small life. When he looked up, he realized that Natasha was watching him with a strange look in her eyes. Her own cat was curled up on her lap, sleeping. It probably didn't even notice her underneath it.
What is it?
She slowly smiled and shook her head, stroking the dozing kitten's head with a single finger. Loki craned his neck, trying to get her to look at him, but she avoided eye contact. He blinked, confused, and looked down at the cat.
(Fortunate, fortunate child.)
He lifted it again and this time put it in his head, onto his hair. The cat must have enjoyed that immensely as it burrowed itself into his dark hair, hiding in his short and soft locks like a rabbit in a meadow. He leaned a little closer to Natasha, as if to goad her to look up. She finally did, and when she saw the cat on his head she let out a laugh.
"I don't think you're supposed to do that," she said. She reached over and plucked the cat from his head. Its claws clung to his hair and she had to untangle strands from its paws. Loki pulled back, smoothing back his hair and reaching out for the kitten again. Natasha hesitated, scrutinizing Loki with unreadable eyes as she held both kittens close to her. He withdrew his hand, slightly indignant and slightly crestfallen.
"Maybe we should leave," she said, her eyebrows drawn in inexplicable wariness. She thanked the shopkeeper, traded the kittens back for her fake ID, and stepped out of the shop without even checking if Loki was following her. Rather fractious, he followed her out, unsure whether to feel offended or concerned. When he caught up with her on the streets, she wore her infamous face of apathy, her light gaze stabbing whatever was before her.
"I'm just going to buy the rest of the team some snacks and we'll go back," she said, her voice as chilled as the breeze. "Are you done?"
Loki did not indicate an answer. He could only wonder what exactly it was that he did wrong that demanded her unemotional approach to him. He reached out to grab her sleeve, to urge her to slow down because he could see the shadows closing in on the sides of his vision and his head spin, but something more than pride stopped him. He shoved his hands in the pocket of the jacket that Tony had bought for him, tailing Natasha through the crowd, wondering when he had become the follower.
They slipped into a bakery, the sugary air clouding their senses. Loki's eyes widened at the sight of all the strange, glazed desserts lined in the glass display case. There were several tables on the side of the bakery, two of them already taken. He wanted to sit down, but he refused to let himself cave into his weakness. He watched as Natasha stood before the counter, murmuring to the young cashier.
"Tony might like this blueberry one," she said, pointing to the Danish on the tray. "And Pepper probably would want the cheese Danish, actually."
The young cashier used metal tongs to put the designated desserts into a white paper box. Loki frowned, perplexed that common people could have so much access to sweets.
"Clint would like that pecan one," she said. "And Bruce should get that peach one. Maybe Thor would like this chocolate one."
Loki shook his head. Natasha caught sight of him and she raised her eyebrows.
"What?"
He narrowed his eyes. Did she really think he wouldn't know that Thor was less inclined to chocolate after nearly a thousand years of trading desserts with him as children? He pointed to the dessert with a thick strawberry glaze.
"You want that?" she said.
He shook his head, resisting rolling his eyes.
"Thor?" she said.
He nodded. She chewed the inside of her cheek before shrugging.
"All right. Give me the strawberry. And keep a chocolate for Steve. Oh, and a honey one, if you have room. Half a dozen."
The cashier nodded and carefully piled all the pastries into the box. She paid him the correct cash and took the box. Loki couldn't help but wonder that she seemed to have gone through a lot of trouble just to buy the team desserts. She went to a table in the corner of the bakery and sat down, kicking the chair opposite of her slightly to gesture to Loki. Loki hesitated before sitting down, wondering if her cold ambiance would crystallize this sweet atmosphere.
"I lost a bet, so I have to get everyone food," she said, opening the box.
Loki wondered what the bet was, but couldn't find it in him to try to ask.
"So does Thor not like chocolate or something?" she said.
He shrugged.
"Or does he detest strawberry and you're forcing it onto him?"
He gave her a scandalous look. Brother or not, he at least had knowledge of Thor's tendencies and tastes. For a mountain of a man, Thor was quite inclined to strawberries, especially when they came in the form of those flattened mortal tarts.
"That's kind of funny," said Natasha. She took a napkin and picked up the honey pastry. She handed it to Loki; Loki could only stare at it disconcertedly. "Thor said your favorite thing is honey. Was he right?"
Loki opened his mouth but gave no answer. Thor? He was surprised Thor even noticed Loki's eating habits in the midst of scarfing down lamb legs and rocks. Not counting nowadays; now Loki refused to eat anything cooked or anything meat, only taking the fruit and vegetables that Pepper gave him (the only one in the tower that never tried to kill him thus far). He had almost forgotten the taste of honey.
"Take it," said Natasha. "I got it for you."
Loki pursed his lips. His fingers twitched to obey and take it, but his mind was frantically pulling him back. He pictured himself spilling horrid truths and agonized lies just to fill his stomach. He pictured rot and grime coating his tongue. He could see Natasha's dark red head snapped off her neck and lying on the floor, light eyes gaping and teeth broken.
"Are you okay?" she said.
Loki didn't realize that he had shrunk back against his chair, trying to disappear. He nodded. Silent lies were strangely harder to give.
She scoffed. "Don't bother lying. This is me."
How can he be truthful to something so volatile?
"I can promise you that this isn't poisoned or anything," said Natasha. "Eating it won't hurt you."
Yes, but you are humanity's greatest liar.
She held it closer toward him. He gripped the edge of the table. He could almost hear her neck crack and a scream tear from her throat. He swallowed hard and turned his head away.
"Loki," she said.
He stared at the square patterns on the floor. She pulled her chair closer to him. He stiffened immediately.
"Close your eyes," she said.
He clenched his jaw, uncertain. Her gaze was unwavering, so solid and strong that he closed them in the end, half because he didn't know how much longer he could take them.
"This isn't real," said her voice before him. "You're imagining this. This isn't real. You're only dreaming."
He felt her pull at his chin until his lips parted. He closed them immediately, almost out of fright. She tried again, this time a little more gently, and he relented.
"You aren't eating anything," she said. "No one knows what you taste, what you think, what you feel. They can't hurt you when they don't know anything."
Nothing can hurt me, he tried to think. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can hurt me.
"You know what you're about to taste," she said, "because you're dreaming all this. It isn't real. It can't hurt you."
He felt it upon his lips. The sweet honey. He let it fall upon his tongue, let his teeth sink into the flakes. He let himself taste. It tasted unrecognizable.
"That's good," she said. "Keep going. You're only thinking this is real. It's all in your head. It's all in your imagination. Nothing can hurt you."
She murmured this hypnosis until he let himself eat one third of the dessert before he couldn't take any more. When he opened his eyes again, the dessert had been safely hidden away and it was only Natasha before him, her blue eyes carefully watching him. He tried to smile at her, his lips still tinged with honey like a kiss. She handed him a napkin.
"All right?" she said.
He took the napkin and wiped his lips, nodding.
"I didn't realize—I miscalculated," she said.
He didn't understand what she meant. She shrugged, mostly to herself than to him, before closing the box and rising from her seat.
"Was it good?" she said. "You know. What you dreamed."
He cracked a smile and nodded. Honey here was strangely sweeter, but it was acceptable. He followed her out of the bakery, still wondering when exactly it was that she let herself look at him, whereas earlier she avoided eye contact with him.
"That's really the only errand I needed to run," she said as they waited for the traffic to clear. "That teaches me about making bets with Tony—where are you going?"
Loki had noticed something in the corner of his vision that strangely struck him. He made his way slowly towards it, slightly limping on the way. Unlike the jungle of buildings as the rest of the city was, he realized there was an opening spent for a tall granite block in a decorated platform, words engraved in it like a historical tablet. Before he could reach it, he felt her grab his sleeve.
"Don't," she said.
He looked back at her. Her eyes were stubbornly set on him. He tugged his arm away from her and continued. She opened her mouth to protest, but resolved to silence. He dragged himself closer to it, a strange shadow looming in his heart as he drew towards it.
He could see his thin reflection on the black stone, interrupted only by the words etched into the stone. There was a date at the very top of the stone, just a foot or two above his head, and columns of words trailing to the ground. They made no sense when he read them to himself, only for him to realize that they were all names.
"Loki," Natasha said. Her voice was quiet.
Pain grew in his heart, spreading through his veins like a plague. He slowly turned to face Natasha. Somehow he understood. With every name he read on the stone, he could hear their scream, their last words, their last breath. He could recognize each drop of their blood that stained his hands, and they were plentiful.
"Loki." But her voice trailed away. He swallowed hard and turned his gaze to the base of the memorial. There were many envelopes with names written on them with a shaky hand. A stuffed animal, a photo, and several carnations. He lowered himself to them, trailing a long finger upon one of the dying flowers. Where had they come from? Who would put them here, where there was no body, no honor, and full of memory?
"People put them here for their loved ones," said Natasha. "Grieving never ends, really."
He felt his mouth become very dry. This was neither a proper gravestone nor a monument to honor a singular person for their grand deeds, and yet someone—many someones—cared enough to place gifts and memory here. He didn't understand—no, he didn't believe that such love existed. How did humans, these brief mortals, possess such profound and uncommon love that they would care for the very least?
It couldn't exist. It shouldn't exist. For what love and honor is there except that which must be earned?
He wondered how painful it was when he was the one who brought the knife upon that love, that severed one from the others, leaving many in the wake of mourning. He wondered if such love made pain better or worse. Looking down at the letters, the words still left unsaid after so long, he could almost imagine.
He reached out a hand and traced an engraved name with his finger. He whispered it in his mind and tried to picture a face, a life, a voice. He imagined what someone would have written in an envelope for them, whether to confess love or to reminisce or just to speak to them again, talking of anything that would have been possible had it not been for death. He took in a breath and his heart stung. This, perhaps, was the human love.
He felt the next name, and the next, and the next. He wondered if their voices, whose screams he could recognize, could sing, could speak poetry, could laugh. He wondered if anyone still remembered them, after not hearing them for years. If laughter was perennial. Mortal lives, he understood, were unthinkably brief, but their memories took their entire reality, and was that not more scarring than in comparison to the entire universe?
Natasha didn't object when he moved down the column of names, slowly moving his finger through each letter, trying to understand. She stayed close to him, her fingers upon his shoulder, her face pale and wise. He moved in silence, swallowing down the sound of the dead's names on his tongue.
Love is for children, she once said.
Liar, he wished he could say. Liar. For if a child understood this, then they would have long grown old. Did she honestly believe that?
Love is for children, she once said.
Then children are broken and scarred and wiser than any old man that ever lived. For who could be truly hurt when there was no love?
Never doubt I love you, he once said.
His hand grew heavy with each new name that weighed upon his finger. If love was a lie, then truth was a lie. If love didn't exist, then neither shall he, for everything that did was nothing but pain and loss and he had tried too long.
Here was love, that its truest teacher was loss.
When he reached the last name, he realized that he couldn't stand anymore, and his body shook. He was afraid to breathe, and Natasha's hand upon his shoulder was the most comforting sensation he had felt in a long time. He felt both empty and bursting, numb and aware, wise and foolish. At peace and in grief.
In the end, she helped support him as they walked back home.
"Nat, you're back!"
Natasha flashed a quick smile to Clint as she slid the box of desserts across the kitchen counter. Clint caught it immediately and opened it, grinning when he caught sight of his pecan dessert.
"You're the best. Let me pay you back."
"Come on, I'm trying to make up for my bet against Stark," she said.
"He only cares if you paid for him, the rich bastard," said Clint.
"It was my pleasure. Go ahead, eat it," she said, pulling out a bar stool to sit on. Clint placed his dessert on a plate.
"Aren't you going to eat one?" he said.
"I don't really care for these kinds of sweets," she said.
Clint frowned and pointed at a half-eaten honey pastry. "What's that? Did they cheat you off your money?"
Natasha hesitated before shrugging. "That was Loki's."
Clint's bottom jaw twitched. "Didn't even finish it."
"That wasn't his fault," she said. "He ate as much as he could."
"Why'd you get him one?" said Clint. "I thought he was starving himself."
"Just because he only eats raw fruits and vegetables doesn't mean he's starving," said Natasha with a wry smile.
"Easy for you to say. Do you know how fast I went through the bacon pack in the fridge?" said Clint.
"You should have told me to pick you up some more," said Natasha.
"Nah, I'll do it myself," he said. "Wait, you went to see Loki today?"
"Well," said Natasha. "I sort of invited him to come out with me."
Clint's eyebrows furrowed and he leaned back against the counter. "Why?"
"What do you mean, why?" she said. "He wanted to take a walk, I said, why the hell not?"
"You know why the hell not," said Clint. "Last time he was loose in New York City, he killed hundreds of people."
Last time I was loose and free, I assassinated anyone who stood in the way.
"Well, last time he wasn't exactly powerless or tortured," she said.
"I get it," said Clint, his voice a little rougher than usual. "I get it. He gets tortured, we feel compassionate, we give him a longer leash of sorts—"
"He is not on a leash," said Natasha.
"—but just because he took a couple rounds or whatever it was he went through doesn't mean he's a threat," said Clint. "Look, how do we know this—this whatever he had with the Chitauri didn't push him over the edge or something to the point that he could be much more unstable and dangerous than before? Don't people consider that?"
"If he wanted to kill everyone, he would have done it already, I would think," said Natasha.
Clint gritted his teeth. "Well, you did say he was powerless right now, didn't he?"
"He behaved perfectly fine," Natasha said. "I know. I was skeptical myself. But he did. And even if he didn't, it isn't like I haven't handled something like him before. Or that the world hasn't handled something like him before. He's got no allies, not even the Chitauri anymore, not Asgard, not anything. I don't think he's stupid enough to pull anything right now even if he really wanted to."
Clint rubbed his forehead. "So that's it? We have no idea what the hell's actually going on so we let him off the hook?"
"Clint," said Natasha. Clint sighed heavily and sank into a bar stool beside Natasha. Natasha put a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face her. "What's on your mind?"
"Isn't it obvious?" said Clint. "I can't stand the sight of him. Every time I see him I remember how he stole my mind, and everyone else's, and used us to kill so many people. I remember all the nightmares I got because of it, how many people had to have funerals because of him, how many 'We deeply regret to inform you' letters sent to agents' families, all of that shit, and I just get so damn angry. But then I look him and I see that he's—he's not who he once was because now he's broken and silent and everything and I just get so damn confused."
He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes. "I want to hate him. I want to not feel a single ounce of pity for him. But when I see him I can't help but think, goddammit, what happened to him? Did he deserve all that? No one deserves it, even though I don't have a clue what the hell is going on, it can't be any good. Then when I find myself feeling bad for him, I get angry at myself because this is the man that nearly destroyed the world, that caused so many people to die, and how can I call myself a SHIELD agent trying to protect the world when I'm having those kinds of sentiments? And then when that happens, I feel ashamed of myself because I'm so damn hateful that I can't find it in myself to help him. I'm in this perpetual state of self-disgust and confusion and I just—I just don't know how to feel."
He took in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Natasha felt her heart ache at the sight of him and she tightened his grip on his shoulder.
"I understand, Clint," she said. "I do. I do."
"Then how are you able to take him out and talk to him and everything without feeling so confused?" he said. "If I tried that...if I even made myself stay in the same room as him, I don't know what I would do. I'm afraid I might try to kill him. I'm afraid I won't have any control over myself."
"You don't have to feel angry with yourself about this," said Natasha. "It's normal. It's—it's perfectly normal. But…" She swallowed and continued. "If we keep hating him, and trying nothing, nothing changes. But if we do something, then maybe—maybe we'll make something right. Maybe we'll fix something."
Maybe a little red can be wiped away.
"Is that what you're doing this for?" said Clint. "You think you owe the world a debt?"
Natasha tightened her lips into a thin line.
"No," she said. "I don't think so."
She didn't want it to be.
Her reflection was bare.
Her hair looked like blood, as if someone bashed her head in and let her own blood trickle down. As if she dived headfirst into carnage.
The faucet spat scalding hot water on her skin as she rubbed the soap between her fingers. She scoured her hands, trying to wash away the invisible grime that felt sticky upon her palm.
Out, damned spot.
Suddenly, her skin felt too tight for her, as if moving too quickly or too sharply would tear it and her true, uglier self would be revealed. She swallowed hard, and her spit tasted bitter.
To think that Loki was only several floors above her, coexisting under the same roof. She didn't know how it made her feel. Especially after today.
He's a murderer, she tried to remind herself. He stabbed Coulson in the back just because he was in the way. He tried to kill Thor multiple times—his own brother. He threatened her death with a grin on his face.
She should hate him. She was supposed to hate him after all that he did. Hate was far more passionate, far more unconditional than love could ever be. There was no room in her for kindness to bastards like him.
She raised her eyes to the mirror. She thought she could see his bright eyes stare back at her and she gritted her teeth.
He killed eighty people in two days, she had thought when she watched him play with the small kittens in the shop, a smile on his lips.
His mind is a bag full of cats, she had thought when he closed his eyes, willingly and openly trusting her even when he had been so afraid just seconds earlier.
He's a monster, she had thought when he saw the raw hurt on his face as he read the names on the memorial.
She wondered that if she held his hand, she could feel his sorrow on his finger. If she could feel the names weigh down on her palm and let it sift between her fingers. Her hands itched.
(She once had a scrapbook of all the obituaries and news articles of the people she killed, blaming her murders on plausible freak accidents and unfortunate events—Mistress would add a new article between the pages and with a pat on Natasha's small head she would say, 'Look, girls, how strong our Romanova is, how victorious she becomes,' and she would leaf through the book with a growing sense of pride and fascination.
It's okay, Natasha, Clint once told her. You're sorry for what you did. Don't do this to yourself, Nat. Some things you can't change but that doesn't include the Now. It's okay.
She had never actually thought of the book before.)
All of a sudden, she wished to delve into him. To sink into his heart, drown in his mind, understand him. Because he was now her greatest enigma she was dying to solve, a treasure map to the chest that she craved for. Knowledge—understanding—remorse.
You and I, Loki, she thought as her skin grew red under the water. You and I, we are mirror images of each other. We are the same bloodied hands, the same hungry eyes, the same shadowed past. But you are the human and I am the reflection—flattened, unreal, not wholly formed, whereas you are flushed and full of humanity, a complete circle. You are true, and I am a shadow of what a person ought to be.
She closed her eyes and dreamed of being whole.
Several days later, when Natasha noticed the memorial was lined with hundreds and hundreds of bouquets of undying asphodels and white dryads, she pretended that her eyes did not sting.