13 The Bracelet
With the Alfheim forces secured for Asgard, there was no reason to stay in the realm any longer. Amora came into her chamber and sat on the bed as Natasha jammed her few belongings into a small bag provided by Sif: Thor's gift of a priceless dagger, a series of documents for Fury's desk, and a small drawstring pouch from the royal treasury. It contained several clear stones in flashing colors, as well as a thick helping of gold coins, all payment for Natasha's services. She had protested at the amount, but Thor shook his head and pressed the jewels into her hand. Fury would be very happy with the amount the lot would bring on the open market.
The magic scrolls were long gone, abandoned in Jotunheim where they would stay. In any case, Natasha was determined to be done with any hint of magic. Even the short bout of playing with its mystery had ripped her life apart.
"You should stay longer," Amora blurted. "I can protect you here, but on Midgard you will be totally alone."
"I'm used to it." Natasha squinted at the dagger, polished it on her sleeve, and stowed it at the top of her bag. Probably she wouldn't need it on her journey, but it never hurt to be ready. "And I'm well used to taking care of myself."
"Aren't you going to bring this?" Amora picked up a bracelet made of heavy silver links. A likeness of a rearing horse dangled from one end. "Svaðilfari's gift, was it not?"
Natasha touched the lovely thing with one finger. It would be rude to leave it behind, and the ambassador would expect to see it on her wrist as she said goodbye to the court. There was no memento from Jotunheim, of course, besides a damaged psyche. Her nostrils flared as she did up the intricate catch. Agent Romanov – doing her job, no matter what the cost.
Amora's hand, slender and elegant with childish dimples over the knuckles, slid onto Natasha' knee. "I count you among my friends," the enchantress said simply. "If you ever need me, all you have to do is tell Heimdall. Sif would tell you the same, I am certain of it."
The air glowed around Amora's glorious face as she spoke the name of her lover. Natasha tried to restrain her instant reaction, flinching away from the sight of happiness and developing love. Of course Amora noticed right away – her beauty harbored a canny intelligence one wouldn't suspect in such a gorgeous specimen of Viking femininity. "We are bedding each other," she whispered, "but it is forbidden in this realm. It is not as though Sif and I can hope to grow old happily together, Natasha."
"Midgard isn't a perfect society either, but in a few years I think civil unions for all couples will be legal in the US, at least. If you and Sif ever want to visit, I can offer you a bed. Well, a couch. If you want, we can all go and drink at a gay bar, and you can be with your lover out in the open…" Natasha choked on the rest of her words. There was no such place for her and Loki, no impending legislation to help her affair with the Jotun. The real problem lay in his impetuous nature and her fierce independence, and that wasn't even the real kicker. The very personality flaws that had driven her to run away from him and for Loki to steal her in the first place were what drew them together so fiercely.
So basically, Natasha admitted to herself, she was fucked.
Manhattan retained a sulky hold on winter even though it was already March. Natasha negotiated icy puddles in her inadequate sneakers to lug home several bags of groceries. It was her version of survival: alcohol, new weapons, and bullets to go with them. By the time she got everything out, inspected the new pieces, made notes to retrofit them to her specs, she realized she was hungry and there was no food in place except for half a box of stale Cheez-Its.
Natasha poured vodka over ice and shook some of the crackers into a bowl. She frowned as an antennaed beetle crawled out of the orange squares, disturbed from its winter napping spot. The snack went into the garbage, the bug released through the one window in her flat that opened, and she consoled herself that alcohol had to have some calories.
The doorbell rang, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She was simply not ready to face anyone yet, other than Fury. "Open the door," Clint called, rattling the handle. "I've brought subs with extra grease."
She admitted him in with a frown. "Hey."
"Hey. Don't worry – I'm not going to talk or do anything other than eat this massive sandwich." Clint put out two paper plates with napkins wadded underneath, divided the hoagie into halves, and shoved one at her. "Just eat it, Tasha, for fuck's sake – out of all the inhabitants of this city I'm the one who knows you the best. What else were you going to have for dinner? Crackers?"
"There are bugs in the pantry, so no." Natasha picked up the food, took a huge bite. The deli had loaded it with oil and onions, just the way she liked it. Clint, chewing massively, rummaged in the bag again and produced kettle chips. With a sigh of contentment he picked up the remote and turned on a baseball game. She noticed how his hand, still holding the remote, just grazed the back of her neck. His proximity and the food made Natasha's eyes prickle, and she dropped the sandwich into her plate.
Clint switched off the game, and they sat in silence for a few moments. The sounds of the city, so comforting and familiar, droned outside: traffic, far-off music, and the drum of winter rain.
"You do know me," Natasha said, letting her hair hang forward so she wouldn't have to look at him. "You know I hold onto – you know. I never lose any part of myself. So if I tell you I made a connection while I was kidnapped, would you call it Stockholm Syndrome?"
His thumb, calloused from the bow, rubbed a circle on her skin. "I'd say the guy who did it was intelligent, probably brighter than anyone you ever came up against. You might have seen a piece of yourself in him that made you think there was a connection, one you didn't expect."
"Maybe." It came out as a whisper.
"Either way," Clint continued, "I think you should talk to someone. This is serious - and don't get all pissed off now just because I suggested it."
Natasha stared at the black television screen and felt her breath hot in her chest. "I won't talk about my past," she said. "I refuse. You're the only person who knows other than Fury and Maria."
"Okay, absolutely. I just meant talk about what happened on Jotunheim. The kidnapping. The dude who did it. You need to mentally detox, Tasha."
"And I suppose you know the perfect person to help me?"
"As a matter of fact I do. Dated her a few times. She's smart, funny, nice. The freaky shit we go through won't phase her, if you want to get into the nine realms and ice giants. Plus she's been cleared by SHIELD to help people like us."
Pushing the table back, Natasha got to her feet. "Probably time for you to go."
"Yeah, I know. Here, take the rest of the sub. Should make an interesting breakfast, right?" Clint winked at her and went to the door. There he stopped, pulled her in for a quick hug, and whispered, "Don't delay on this, kiddo. You can't afford to let this guy take over your life. And by the way, I want to personally punch him in the dick."
The rest of the food went into tin foil and the back of her fridge. Natasha climbed into bed, her Glock a familiar weight under the pillow. Although she thought she would lie awake, sleep crashed over her at once.
She walked in blue halls lined with ice, a rolled parchment scroll in her fist. The passage branched and she took one on the left, not knowing where it would lead or if it even mattered. Her wrist burned, and she saw with a shock Svaðilfari's bracelet glowed red there, burning her skin underneath. "Are you promised to him?" someone whispered, a hidden presence in the blue halls. "Will you lie with him, this horse-person? He wants you – and you already know of his desire."
"Get over yourself." Even in dreams her caustic nature thrust through her desires. "You're not exactly celibate. You made that perfectly clear when we talked through the fire on Asgard. Not that it really matters, Loki. I do what I want."
"And so do I. And I want you."
"But it's over. You made that clear as well."
"And you want me." The voice was very low, interrupting as though she had never spoken. Loki appeared in front of her, still wearing the furs around his hips. He held a spear of ice in one hand, and his red eyes were filled with anger. "Feel free to tell yourself these untruths, but do not dare to lie to me."
"I…"
"Stop." Loki strode up to her, pulled her close with one arm around her waist. He fastened his lips on hers, and she could taste his breath, the mint and passion. She could feel his desire, as well, the erection under the furs nudging against her belly. Just as she was about to moan, to undo the zip on her suit, he pushed her away and snarled, "You want me just as badly as I want you, and you always will."
"No!" Natasha shot up in bed, holding the Glock with both hands. For one soul-freezing moment she thought someone sat on the end of the mattress, his face away from hers, and she nearly fired the gun in her hands. Her arms, her fingers, her wrists never trembled – she was too well-trained for that.
A sob was forced from her throat, just the same. Tears, from the woman who never showed emotion.
Carefully Natasha put the Glock under her pillow and turned on the light by her bed. There was nothing in the room. The figure she had seen must have been a figment, a shadow, a dream. Still, she wanted to run to the little fireplace and start it up so she could see Loki in the flames. Even if he was carrying another Jotun to his bed, at least she could see he was alive – that Farbauti hadn't slain her son, that somewhere in the universe a king called Loki battled and fucked and laughed, with those damn lines around his eyes betraying intelligence and humor.
She sat as long as she could, arms clasped around her thighs. Finally Natasha sighed with surrender, got out of bed, and padded to the tiny living room. There she turned on gas fireplace and sat cross-legged to watch the fire intently.
Loki never appeared in the flames, nor did anything else.
After a breakfast of leftover Italian hoagies, Natasha texted Clint. "I'm ready," she wrote. "Introduce me to your psychologist friend." Somewhere, just at the edge of her vision, a blue figure seemed to laugh at her with white teeth. She ignored the memory of the Jotun prince and, telling herself it would be okay, hit Send on the text.
Outside, the icy rain had started falling again in sheets. Weeping weather made the city quieter, since most Manhattanites were clustering in warm pubs or hiding out in their apartments. Natasha pushed her hair back off her face and felt she rested in a place between the realms, silent and motionless with no purpose other than waiting for the next act to happen. It was like sitting on the ledge of an old stone clock, watching the massive gears wheel and count the passing time.
When the dark bird arrived on her windowsill, the same one she had opened the night before to release the bug, Natasha started and nearly dropped her coffee. Nothing was out in the storm, only crawling taxis with darkened signs signaling their unavailability. How did you get here? she wondered.
The raven glared at her through the glass, ice streaking its dark feathers. Natasha put down her mug and waved her hands in the air, trying to get it to fly off. "You're just a bird," she said. "Go to your nest, or wherever you live." The bird tilted its head on one side, considering before it deliberately pecked her window once, twice, again.
The sounds were as loud and sudden as pistol shots, and a flower of cracks bloomed from the place where its beak had hit the glass.