Author's Note: Another timely update? What's happening here! (I'M SURE I DON'T KNOW.)

Once again, with all my love and thanks to the wonderful zaataronpita, who not only betas the finished product but puts up with a lot of flailing and whining along the way.

Other notes at this point in the story for the fact that this is looking like it's going to be a lot longer than I thought it was going to be. So...shiiiiiit.

Loki lingered just long enough to finish his coffee, and transported himself back into his room. Undoubtedly he'd made it back before Foster, given the time it would take for her to drive. What would she say when she returned? How much did she know, how much did she guess, and if SHIELD knew (and he had to think that they did) then why had they made no move, said nothing…

Perhaps they had not leaped to the same conclusion Jane had. There was no real reason for them to. They'd never seen his face, and if Thor had told them little…was it not possible that they would think he was simply another Asgardian, no relation, no connection? Why else hold their silence?

(Let your quarry think it's safe, a murmur at the back of his mind. Put them at ease. Then close the trap. Was that it?)

He paced back and forth, the short distance his room allowed. You were a fool to speak to her. A fool to let your curiosity overrun your sense. He ought to have been able to keep her from seeing, though, ought to have been able to keep his secrets.

The disquieting though occurred to him that perhaps he hadn't wanted to. Perhaps some part of him had wanted her to see him for himself, know what he'd done, and react – how? Had he expected her to treat him kindly? To be a confidant, a friend?

Or had he, rather, expected her to react just as she had, with anger, disgust, revulsion. And that was what he'd wanted, perhaps even what he'd needed…

Loki pushed that thought away with something approaching savagery. He was not quite so pathetic as that. Surely.

His rooms felt too small, too enclosed. If they did not already know…what did it matter? Foster would tell them, assuredly. And then - and then what? How would SHIELD react? He could not guess, not and be sure it would be accurate.

He couldn't stay here, waiting. But at the same time, what action could he take? If he had intended to stop Foster it should have been before she'd left. Now…going to Coulson he risked revealing too much, and his alternative resources were somewhat limited.

The walls felt like they were closing in, tightening like a noose around his neck.

Snarling, Loki threw his door open and stalked out. If there was nothing else he could do, at the very least he could expel some of this nervous energy the tried and true way of exercise, and if there was no one he could spar with at the very least the activity might help him center, focus. Think clearly.

(He should never have spoken to the damned woman. What had he expected to gain, what had he expected would be bettered by conversing with her?)

Loki ignored the sidelong glances he received as he stalked through the hallways, half expecting someone to stop him or try to attack. No one did, though a few did seem to hasten to get out of his way, prompting Loki to smooth his features to calm impassivity and to attempt to smooth his mind to the same. The former was more successful than the latter.

He let himself through the door of the room he'd been heading for and let out a sigh of relief at finding it unoccupied. It was not, perhaps, ideal, but it would do. This practice range wasn't meant for knives, but it was decidedly better than nothing.

Loki called his in and took up his stance. Flung three knives in quick succession, marked their location, and called them back.

It startled him, that Thor had taken to this woman, rather than any other. Quick minded, intelligent, stubborn…in another life, he might have approved. Might have looked at Foster and despite her mortality found her a better sister in law than the other women Thor had seemed taken with before.

(Always Thor. Always, his thoughts circled back to Thor. No matter how distant he might be from him, always- He flung the knives again in rapid succession, noted the position, snarled at the inaccuracy, and called them back.)

Her expression was vivid in his mind. Why did it bother him? She was mortal. She had no right to judge him, she knew nothing of him but what little Thor might have said or what bastardized human myths claimed. What was her judgment? No real concern but what she might reveal to SHIELD, and even if she did – there was no proof. Her word against his…

(But who would believe your word? Who ever… Loki exhaled a few short, stacatto breaths, and threw the knives again. Thunk-thunk-thunk. The punctuation sharp sound of his knives hitting their target was at least marginally satisfying.)

And if they moved against him, what did it matter? He was stronger than them. It would be inconvenient, unpleasant, but – Margaret. What of her? Would they hurt her to bring him to heel? He thought not, but…

Monster whispered in the back of his mind, echoed in the look on her face. Not because of Thor. He would have expected her anger on Thor's behalf. Killing and wounding most of a small town…

He hadn't thought of them, Loki realized. Not as people. Not really. They were of as little interest to him as insects, small, irrelevant but for Thor's strange and sudden fondness for them. Why would it matter, after all, their lives so short and pointless anyway? He tried to think of a town of those mortals he'd become somewhat fond of himself, if Ms. Fairfax and Angela, say, were victims of something similar. If one of those fools targeting him, perhaps, had been a touch stronger, enough to-

Loki shied from that, not quite able to face the disquiet feeling in his chest.

He felt the weight of one of his blades in his hand, looked down the range at his target. He took a deep breath and centered himself, forcing his thoughts blank and himself calm. It had never been easy, that sort of mental exercise, but necessary for magic, and so he had learned, eventually, to control his thoughts and make them as quiet as they ever would be. To empty himself and set all things aside save the moment and the task itself.

Shifting his stance, he cast the first knife into the shoulder of the roughly human shaped target, the second into its throat, and the last blade into the eye of the roughly human shaped target he'd been practicing with. He breathed out a sigh and, finally feeling somewhat steadied, strode forward to pull them out physically rather than with magic.

"You're good with those."

Loki fell still. He truly had let his emotions get the better of him, if it had allowed someone to enter and observe without his notice. He considered for a moment, then didn't turn, instead taking the last few steps to the target and beginning to work his knives free. "I try."

"It's customary to thank someone for a compliment, you know."

"I'm aware of the custom." Loki pulled the last knife free and turned to look at Barton where he was leaning against a wall at the other end of the range. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Not really, no." He stretched, perhaps a touch ostentatiously. Loki was not fooled by his apparent relaxation. His eyes were as sharp as he remembered, and if he looked thoughtful rather than tense…that did not seem sufficient reason for him to be at ease.

"Just passing by?" Loki said, voice a touch dry.

"No," Barton said, after a moment. "Not that either." He straightened, bearing shifting slightly to something not quite wary. "Tasha likes you."

Loki blinked, and could not quite keep his, "She does?" as bland as he wanted it to be.

"Hm," Barton said, and crossed his arms, still watching Loki narrowly. "Yeah. Seems like."

Loki loosened his shoulders and shrugged. "I see. And you thought I needed informing of this?"

"Not really." He leaned back against the wall. "Tasha pointed out a few things. You got us started off on the wrong foot, but…" He trailed off and eyed Loki. "She doesn't like a whole lot of people. You're lucky." He paused. "Or unlucky, maybe, I guess. She supposedly likes Stark too and that doesn't seem to help him."

He felt a peculiar flush of pleasure at that, and quashed it at once. When had the opinions of mortals begun mattering so much to him? "I should hope," Loki said dryly, "I am a great deal less trying than I gather Stark is."

"Ah," said Barton, looking like he wanted to grin. "So you've met."

"Briefly." Loki watched the man closely, trying to puzzle out what his game was. What he wanted, if there was something other than what he claimed or… Barton looked like he wanted to laugh for a moment, but it passed, and he pushed off the wall and sauntered over.

Loki did not quite let himself tense.

"So," Barton said, "throwing knives, huh? Wouldn't expect you to use – you know, normal people weapons, with the whole…" he made an eloquent hand gesture probably intended to communicate magic. Loki did not let himself wince, knowing that the low flicker of anger in his belly was not truly directed at the archer.

"Relying too much on any one skillset is, I have found, a risky proposition."

Barton snorted. "I can see why Tasha'd like you," he said, and Loki blinked, slightly taken aback. Barton seemed to have relaxed slightly, though, which seemed likely to be a good sign.

"Was there something in particular you wanted to say?" Loki asked, and heard the prickle in his own tone but could not quite regret it. "I was practicing."

"Keeping your skills sharp?" Barton said, with a grin that reminded Loki peculiarly of Fandral. Loki cast him a scathing look, but Barton just snickered. "Hey. It was too good to pass up."

"If you are not careful I might find teleporting you to an isolated island too good to pass up," Loki said, without thinking, and then tensed. Mind your tongue, fool.

The man did for a moment look like he was going to snarl, but then he snorted, and if the way he relaxed looked suspiciously deliberate... "Yeah," he said, "and then Natasha'd kill you, so…"

Loki blinked, feeling a strange little twist of confusion, his immediate reaction to snarl at the threat as if she could but it was spoken with such banal lack of feeling that...a jest? He hovered for a moment, indecisive, then simply said, "More's the pity," with a slightly edged smile, and if Barton gave him an odd look, it did not seem hostile. That was strangely gratifying.

As was the subsequent shrug. "Practicing, huh? All right. You're not the only one with ranged weapons to work with." The man rubbed his hands together and paced to a cabinet of what Loki supposed must be spare weapons. He selected a bow from among them and eyed it. "Not great, and definitely not mine, but…" he glanced back at Loki, who watched him, quiet.

"Waiting for something?" he asked, after a moment.

"For you to make clear what it is you want," Loki said flatly, and something flickered across Barton's face that he couldn't quite read. Something about it disquieted him, though, left him feeling decidedly strange.

"Are we talking general or specifics?" he asked, after a moment, and when Loki just looked at him, half grinned in a way that didn't quite look genuine. "I don't take back what I said about the weird. But like I said, Tasha seems to like you. So I figured maybe I'd better take a second look."

Loki felt…strange. At once cornered and not, like he'd stepped into water without intending to but found it soothingly warm. Likely he just wanted to know that you were not a threat to his lover, a scathing voice at the back of his mind said, but Loki pushed that one down into near silence.

Barton stepped forward and lifted his bow, giving him a sidelong look. "Hey," he said. "You ever take wagers?"

"That depends somewhat on the wager," Loki said, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Huh," said Barton, and then grinned, a little. "Let's see if we can come up with something appropriate."

~.~

He won, of course. Though it was nearer than he'd have expected. Barton didn't seem to take it poorly, though, and in deference to that Loki kept his gloating to…fairly minimum.

Returning to his room, he felt…calmer. More balanced. Less certain of impending disaster, or at least mostly less certain of it. And if the whole interaction had been peculiar…it was not in such a bad way. Barton might even be tolerable. Given time.

He felt an unwilling smile quirk his mouth as he turned the corner into his hallway.

Foster was waiting outside his door.

He stopped the moment he saw her hovering there, and considered hiding himself and waiting for her to leave, but that seemed…absurdly cowardly. No one had come to take him captive or accuse him of any crime, so perhaps…

Loki quashed that thought before it was completed.

She turned just as he decided to approach her, and between one moment and the next her faintly nervous expression disappeared and she drew herself up, armored in professionalism. He waited, watching her, for Foster to make the first move.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. "Agent Silver," she said, with a peculiar kind of emphasis on that name that Loki did not fail to note. "I wanted to…thank you for the insight you shared with me today. I'm sure it will be helpful."

Loki searched her eyes. They were wary, cautious, but not outright hostile. She hadn't voiced her suspicions, Loki realized, with a small giddy rush of relief. For whatever reason…she hadn't said anything about him to SHIELD. "You are welcome," he said, slowly. "Always a pleasure to share knowledge with one who…appreciates it."

Foster looked like she wanted to drop his gaze and look elsewhere. Or perhaps like she wanted to rip his throat out with her bare hands. Loki was not entirely certain which it was. "If it's not an imposition, I would like…to make a request."

She was bold. He'd give her that. "Yes?"

"I'm sure you have a great deal of information that would be useful to me." Foster met his eyes, her gaze startlingly frank. "I'd like you to agree to meet with me once a week. Here, on premises."

Loki let his mouth twist in a wry, crooked smile, and nearly said, in exchange for your silence, I assume. But he held that back, and merely inclined his head. His feelings of balance, of calm, were ebbing quickly away. "I don't find that proposal disagreeable."

Foster's nod was small and tense. She stepped away from his door, and then paused. "I'm going to want to know what happened," she said. "Between you and Thor, I mean. That caused…all of that." She turned, and Loki found himself relieved, because he could almost feel his expression spasm. "So…fair warning."

"And if I don't wish to speak to you about something so…personal?"

"Too bad," Foster said, flatly. "You made it pretty personal to me, too. Figure it out." She walked away, straight backed and without glancing over her shoulder, though he could read some nervousness in her shoulders. Probably, he could cow her easily enough. For a time, at least.

No, he thought, then. No, I don't think so.

And Thor loved her. For just a moment, Loki dug the knife in, pictured the two of them together. Happy.

He swept the mental image away, forcing it to shatter. What did it matter? Thor was not here.

(And he was, and here again, everything he most wanted to forget shoved back in his face, like salt rubbed into a wound. What happened between you and Thor. As though it were that simple. As though…)

You'll have to face it eventually.

But he didn't want to. Not yet.

Interlude (XII)

There was no trouble for a week after his confrontation in the alley with his tail. No new followers, things quiet at work (Megan as strange as ever). Loki felt – almost good about the state of things. Almost. Not quite.

The wariness lingered, and unease he couldn't quite shake, strange certainty that something was going to go wrong, and soon.

He'd begun looking for an apartment, however, and was finding the experience…decidedly frustrating. Particularly as asking anyone for assistance seemed likely to raise questions about his living situation, and he was not entirely certain that an extended stay of quite such duration was standard in Midgardian lodgings.

Loki was shelving books on a Friday when he became aware of Megan's eyes on him. He turned to look at her and raised his eyebrows in silent question, to which she looked entirely unphased. "What do you do?" she asked, suddenly. He blinked, and did not quite stiffen.

"Beg pardon?"

"When you're not working," she said. "What do you do? You never talk about friends or anyone, nobody calls you…I'm just wondering. You're a mystery wrapped in an enigma."

Loki felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. "Does it matter what I do with my spare time?"

Megan shrugged. "I guess not. Mostly just…I dunno. You seem a little lonely sometimes." She snorted a little. "I mean, that's the only reason you talk to me, I figure, cause you don't seem to actually like me very much." She did not, oddly, sound troubled by that fact, but Loki found himself frowning.

"I do not dislike you," he said, carefully, which was…true. Perhaps even had a peculiar kind of fondness for her. Megan and her strangeness. Her father – her birth father, though she seldom called him even that – called her at least once a week, and Loki listened to their terse conversations and Megan's tight, unhappy expression and noticed how she never failed to call her family later that day. She brought cookies into work sometimes. Gave Loki long and rambling recommendations of books he did not intend to read and found himself enjoying anyway.

"Mmmhm," Megan said, narrowing her eyes. "High praise. Anyway. If you ever felt like doing something…I technically speaking have a life, but not that much of one. So…"

Loki blinked at her, slightly uncomprehending. Megan almost grimaced. "Wow," she said, "I can't decide if that expression is adorable or a little bit sad."

Loki pressed his lips together and frowned. "Beg pardon?"

"You, beanpole," Megan said, and, peculiarly, waggled her eyebrows. "Me. Movie tonight. What do you think?"

"I – suppose," Loki said, still somewhat taken aback, and Megan grinned at him as though he'd said something wonderful.

"Excellent," she said. "I'm thinking you're probably not a rom-com kind of person, so maybe something with explosions or something…"

Loki tuned her out, mind going back to the first thing that she'd said. Lonely. Was he? He hadn't thought about it, at least not really, not in depth or detail. But…he'd never been overfond of company. He'd always spent most of his time alone.

(Not always by choice, murmured a small voice at the back of his mind.)

But here…on Midgard…sometimes it did weigh on him. The being alone, being unknown, isolated from everything he knew or thought he had known without, really, much else to grab hold of. But wasn't that his intention? Getting too close to any mortals was not only an absurd notion, but likely to be dangerous. He felt another tingle of nervousness down his spine.

And yet…

One night, he thought, one movie. What could it hurt? It could not be weakness, to allow himself that much. Nor dangerous. To refuse now would, besides, be odd.

Perhaps it would be pleasant.

Cautiously, quietly, he let himself anticipate.