And Loki's side. I'm sure you were all curious what was going on there. We're running about 6k words on his side.
Hope you enjoy~
warnings: depression, thoughts of suicide
Things without Steve are... different.
(He forgets, sometimes, that they are not 'together,' reaches for his phone to ask about dinner before catching himself. Stares at it, irritated and sick that he forgot.)
Things do not go back to how they were before—that is impossible. Besides, he interacts socially almost as much as he once did (before), a variety of people and places, so much of it his choosing (instead of relying on someone else to make this choice for him—no required celebrations, no dignitaries to meet, no surprise trips out, no obligation to attend parties he does not want).
Most things his choice, really.
He does not need to keep seeing Janelle—after all, his agreement with Steve was why he went in the first place—but he does. She helps, more than he ever expected.
(And if he is honest (and he is trying more, now, to be so with himself (though it is difficult)), he will admit his head fills with less noise, that he feels more in control, that inexplicable desire to break tied to loathing does not hit him in waves and leave him shaking while he tries to keep from lashing out. Does not stop, but is less frequent. Lasts for less time because now he has found thoughts and things which help ease it a little.)
(He still does not like himself, but that he can admit that at all...)
(Very, very rarely, he suspects that perhaps (perhaps) he is not so irredeemable as he believes.)
The medication seems to help as well. Not fix—Janelle is very firm there is nothing wrong, that it is only difference and another way to cope. He suspects that is semantics, but he allows that the drugs are certainly effective.
It is different.
(And sometimes, most the time, he misses Steve's smile, Steve's laugh, so much of Steve, but he knows that he still cannot voice anything, knows that he will allow Steve to decide what is best, knows that he still does not really know what he himself wants. So he does not call, not when waking with nightmares in a bed not his own, not when he stumbles upon a new cafe, not when he aches for the rich solid warmth of Steve.)
But not... bad.
Perhaps what he finds most surprising about this time away from Steve is how... understanding everyone is. The sympathy. Those that did know about his relationship—and there are not many, admittedly, perhaps six or seven all told—all seem entirely supportive of his decision, no matter how much or little he tells them.
It is... different.
(He does not know anything similar, does not understand this reaction.)
But at least this, then, is truly not like that moment ("this is goodbye"), and maybe (perhaps) it was, in fact, for the best.
The... something (hope?) that twines in his chest at the thought is... pleasant.
(Some tiny near-insignificant step, shaky confidence, that he has made a choice and it has not been the worst he could make (not like all the others))
XXXXXX
One afternoon, he is leaving his apartment when he notices that he has a new neighbor to his left. There are boxes stacked by the door, and a smaller woman comes out. She seems passing familiar (but where he has seen her, he does not know).
It is late December. The stairs are slick with melted ice and salt, the wind a bit biting.
"Hello," he offers her curious glance, though he does not quite smile.
"Hi. I'm Scarlett," she says, a quick grin on her features (and surely he has met her somewhere else, but then he is also certain he'd remember someone with white dyed bangs and facial piercings).
He offers his hand to shake. She takes it, a strength he does not expect in her grip.
"Luke. Do you need any help? It's a little cold to be moving alone." He does not mind the thoughtful look she gives him; considering what he brought to this city once he cannot find fault with people finding him threatening.
(Even if they do not know.)
But then it passes and Scarlett is smiling
"Sure! I'd love the help."
He learns as he helps that, like many of the other residents of the apartment, she is some manner of artist; specifically working with wet clay that has left permanent stains beneath her nails. She has just moved from a tiny town outside of St. Louis, is an only child, practices something that he assumes passes for combat on Midgard, and, as it turns out, deeply loves coffee.
(He is less surprised by the last; most mortals he has met adore the drink. He likes it specifically with milk (ignores the pang of 'milk with coffee, you mean') and generally only gets mocha or tea when he goes out.)
He assumes she can cook better than he, though doesn't know. He orders take-out from his favourite Indian restaurant after he has helped her move in, and leaves the leftovers with her ("Consider it a welcome gift, and believe me that it is better than any item I could have made you"), stopping by his own apartment to grab his violin.
As he leaves, he senses eyes watching him. He ignores it; it is a familiar enough sensation in this city.
XXXXXX
He realizes that morning he has nothing and nowhere to be—Christmas, a holiday it seems everyone has closed for, sent Lethe back to St. Louis and Olek to Russia.
(Part of him is so relieved that no one will be stopping by unannounced.)
(The rest wishes he wasn't alone.)
Sylvia calls him to wish him a happy holiday and make sure he is well (all of them have done this, at some point, check-ins to make sure he is fine; at least, the ones he has told about leaving Steve. He finds it near overwhelming and bewildering, even now near a month since then).
On finding out that he does not, in fact, have plans, there is a great deal of to-do, the phone is passed to Sam, and Sam makes a rather convincing case for at least coming by for dinner.
(A relief, to have this unexpected reason to see someone, to enjoy food that he does not need to prepare himself, to do something.)
He does not have a gift for the couple, but they both insist it hardly matters.
"Bring your violin," Sylvia tells him cheerfully, phone successfully recovered from her husband. "We were going to go out after dinner to play for a few places—it's just something we do every year, an orphanage, two old folks' homes. Sam gets dressed up like Santa. If you're up for it?"
"Of course," Loki assures, and he doesn't hesitate (much).
"Great! We'll see you soon. Really, you could come by now, we've already finished visiting all our family's homes and you know you're always welcome," she says.
"Of course," he says, this time with a smile, a bit of certainty, "I will head over now."
(A relief, to have somewhere he almost feels like he belongs.)
XXXXXX
He enjoys drinking his coffee in the mornings outside. When the weather is nice (by her standards) and she is awake, sometimes Lethe will join him.
The weather is most certainly not nice by Lethe's standards this morning. The early January sun is hidden by clouds, snow falling in thick flurries, fresh ice riming everything; his breath and the mug both steam like Nidhogg's breath (though both smell less foul, thankfully) and his fingertips near hurt at the contrast of hot and cold.
(but he likes the cold, always has preferred cold to hot, and tries not to dwell on it; he is human now, all of him, and a low buzz of irritation rises; today, he suspects, will not be easy.)
He takes a breath, closes his eyes, and sips his coffee, focusing on the flavour of milk and bitter that warms his center and keeps a little of the chill nipping him at bay.
(Better.)
He hears a door open behind him and half-turns, curious; Scarlett is coming out, bundled up, a bag slung over her shoulder and balancing a folder on top of her thermos. She blinks at him, gaze three parts thoughtful and one part curious (and surely he recognizes that look), before seeming to realize her door is still open and quickly shutting it.
"Where are you from, the North Pole? It's freezing out here." She shoves her keys in her coat pocket then puts the folder in her bag, taking a contemplative sip of coffee.
"It's not that bad," he says, smirk tugging his lips.
"'Not that bad.' You are standing in," she checks her phone, "you are standing in fourteen degree weather in some pajamas, fuzzy... were those bunnies at one point? slippers, and a bathrobe. Sipping coffee. Without gloves. Wait, you don't even have socks on. Are you shirtless under your robe?" She frowns at him. "Are you sick? Suicidal? Do I need to make sure you don't jump?"
(Falling and star glimmer and blackhopelessdespa—
His smile grows more forced, hands grip his mug a little more tightly, joints aching at the pressure.
"Yes to the shirt, no to the rest. None of those."
(Not at the moment.)
Scarlett shakes her head.
"You're an odd duck, Luke. One seriously odd duck. Well, don't freeze."
"I will do my best. Have a pleasant day."
She stops, startled, to look at him (he certainly knows that look, where was it? Must have only seen it once or twice, it's right on the tip of his to—
"You too, dude." And then she's bounding (he hopes she doesn't slip) down the stairs and on her way.
XXXXXX
As it would turn out once she had chance to settle in, he is often awake and outside before Scarlett leaves each day. One morning she joins him, bundled much more than he, clutching a mug of what smells like hot chocolate close for warmth.
"How the hell do you do this?" she asks after a few minutes when he serenely keeps sipping his coffee while watching the street below.
"Well, I begin by filling the tea kettle, set the milk out—"
"Smart ass."
He smiles.
(Today, he feels, will not be so difficult. He is excited; this afternoon he, Sam, and Sylvia are going to perform at a winter market; he has a certain delight in street playing (songs that allow for ornamentation, flourish, and spirit), and little is more soothing than playing with his two friends who think and talk music much as he does.)
"What do you do anyway? I always see you out here in the mornings."
"I am a musician. Composition, primarily, though also conducting and, when able, performing." He takes a sip of coffee before he rambles, keeping his face blank (waiting on the scorn that a grown man would involve himself with music at all).
"Oh, wow. Really?" Her eyes are a bit wide.
"Yes." Another sip.
"That's wicked cool. Seriously. Have you always done that? I mean, you must be doing pretty well, living here."
He hesitates,
(but she has not found him less, seems truly impressed about the music, that he indulges and provides for himself with such a... childish and female activity)
then finds himself saying, "I used to art model, for a few of the schools in the area. Pleasant enough work, easy, until I better knew my way." A pause, then impulsive offering, "I moved here very recently, only the beginning of last year."
"Daaaamn. That's crazy. Most people wouldn't be able to do all that. I'm guessing that's why you always come stand out to freeze in the cold? Remind you of home?"
He shrugs.
"I like the cold."
(That is okay, it is not monstrous to enjoy the cold, there are plenty of Aesir and humans alike who enjoy the cold, so many holidays here on Midgard that come at this time of year, and he does not feel vulnerable.)
(Today is meant to be well and instead he wants to strangle someone now.)
"Odd duck," she says. He does not look at her, only examines his coffee as if how the milk swirls is the most intriguing thing in the world (instead of how slender her neck is).
(His hands itch a little—
seventh augmented fifth: dominant seventh, sharp fifth; seventh flat nine: dominant seventh, flat ninth; half-diminished seventh: minor seventh, flat fifth
—and then they only ache for his piano, to explore a little more of jazz.)
"I suppose," he says, because it has only been a few moments.
(A shorter time than most days; perhaps today will be well after all.)
"Well, that's my hot chocolate and I don't think you could pay me to stay out here." She grins at him; he offers some small token smile back. "Hurry and finish yours before you get frost-bite. Hey, let's do breakfast sometime."
He blinks at her, startled.
"You do eat breakfast right? There's this cafe with this really great biscuits and gravy I know, my treat."
"I," he searches for some excuse (tries to push down the swell and ache, because the last time he'd had biscuits and gravy was with Steve, near two months ago). "I suppose. I eat it sometimes."
"That settles it then. I'll stick a note under your door or something, so keep an eye out. Later!"
Before he can say anything else, she has ducked back into her apartment. He stares puzzled at it, unsure what he has done or said to make her wish to spend more time with him.
(More certain he has met her before.)
He shakes it off. He needs to get dressed properly and run a few errands before this afternoon; he promised the others he would supply drinks, and they are all meeting together for lunch before they set up to perform.
XXXXXX
"What," he asks Lethe as they walk back together, "do you think of her?"
Lethe glances at him; she is wearing a black cloak with some rich purple lining, a lovely swirl of silver clasping it. The first time he saw her wear it, he was surprised, if only because cloaks are not a thing in common usage on M—Earth any longer; he has long since put it aside and added it to his list of reasons he likes her.
"She seems nice enough. Not so sure about some of her opinions, and I don't know if I'd want to hang out with her that often."
"You generally don't want to hang out with anyone that often," he points out, amused. Lethe can go an entire week without anything but incidental contact, sometimes longer. (Occasionally, he finds he'd rather only be around one or two people instead of many; he gets odd looks when he jests that he is being antisocial, though he is. Antisocial here means something else.)
"There is nothing wrong with that," she protests. "People are messy and don't communicate clearly. Or communicate at all sometimes."
"I suppose."
(How he failed and fails to communicate; the thought is unbidden, sharp, some melancholy bitterness twisting at his insides.)
"She just seems a little off. There's something that doesn't sit right, and I don't know what it is. My family lives in Webster Groves, and I've still got plenty of friends who use the pottery studio there, I used to use it, but no one's ever mentioned her and I've never seen her. It's just a little odd. Maybe she had her own or goes somewhere else. What do you think of her?"
"I feel I've met her before," he says absently, distracted. "Would you like ice cream?"
"What."
"Ice cream. There is a small place, just around the corner. They should be open by now."
"Is this that place you were always telling me about last summer? That you and Steve would go to?"
"N—perhaps." Not truth, but closer than outright lying.
"We can get ice cream if it'll help."
He glances at her, but she is still looking ahead.
"No. No. No need." Just want. A reminder, something to fall back on, but that isn't the point of all this.
"You know if there is anything I can do to help you just need to ask, right?"
"Right." He chuckles darkly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "You are far too kind to me, Lethe."
"Eh. You're an okay guy, you actually know all my weird kitchen rules, and you're fun to talk to. You help me, I help you; works out for both of us, doesn't it?" She grins at him before they head up the stairs of the apartment building.
He watches her for a few moments, hand on the bitterly cold metal railing.
"I suppose so," he murmurs, too quiet for her to hear, and follows.
XXXXXX
There was never any question that he would continue to associate with Lethe when he left Steve; Lethe rarely spoke to Steve (granted, only because she spent much of her time holding her breath and trying not to make fool of herself at first) and generally only interacted with him due to Loki.
Olek, however, was a different question.
(It was Olek he felt need to most explain himself to, Olek who brought them together however incidentally, Olek who listened and nodded and seemed to think, when Loki had said everything he could (and most of it truth)(felt drained and exhausted), that it perfectly reasonable for Loki to desire a little time without Steve. Had helped him decide what to say, how to say it; when he asked 'why' Olek had only smiled and said he wished to see them both happy, together.
It seemed counter-intuitive, Olek's faith that this would only be 'time apart' and not 'farewell', still seems strange that Olek never presses or asks after how he feels, if he thinks it will be soon, even though it is drawing close to end of February. As if the length of time is no matter, as if he knows Steve will wait, as if he trusts Loki to decide what is best and when it is best.
He does not pretend to understand Olek.)
At first, he did not wish to see Olek at all (did not wish to see anyone), busied himself with a thousand other tasks until his mind felt exhausted and didn't ache and echo every moment without Steve; that night he had called Olek, mind turn traitor, cold and shaking and gripping tight to the railing of a pier, staring down at the water below, at how very black it was compared to the star glimmer off the edge of the Bifrost. Olek had listened calmly while he babbled (and that was what it was, weary and barely coherent from too many sleepless nights), babbled about Steve, about how he surely had done the wrong thing (just as he always has), about how alone he felt, about the water, until Olek had finally interrupted to ask him where he was, talked to him about nothings until he arrived, and taken him home.
When he tried to apologize, Olek had only smiled and waved the words away.
"I told you I would take care of things, yes? Yes. Even if you do not remember. Now, you speak to your lovely Janelle about it, stop apologizing for needing a little help sometimes, and stop avoiding me." He had clapped Loki's shoulder, ordered his coffee, and acted as if there was nothing else to speak of.
And, Loki supposed, that was all there was to it for Olek.
XXXXXX
"Hey, hey, we have made it!" Olek elbows Loki in the side and Loki looks up, keys in hand, pleasantly drunk (Olek insisted they stop drinking and they walk back to Loki's place; Loki does not mind, trusts that Olek has a better sense for when he has enough because he still forgets, especially when drinking, what being human involves).
"So we have," he says, sorting through his keys and finding the one for his apartment. "So we have." He rests his forehead against the door as he unlocks it, then pushes his way inside. "Come, there are movies inside."
When Olek doesn't follow, he leans back to peer around the door frame.
"Olek?"
Olek is blinking in surprise; Loki follows his gaze and spies Scarlett.
"Scarlett! Hello!" He smiles cheerfully, backing up out of the apartment and clapping Olek on the shoulder. "Olek, this is the new neighbor, not really new anymore are you?, Scarlett, I told you about her. She keeps trying to take me to breakfast, can you believe that? Actually seems to want to know me, moved in late December. Charming dear. Scarlett," he says, grinning, "should you not be out? Do you have no plans this eve? We are celebrating it being over, mmm, what was it?"
"Over freezing," Olek supplies.
"Yes! Over freezing. Almost jacket weather."
"Ah," she glances at Olek, "yes, no plans. Hi, Olek."
Olek grins.
"The pleasure is all mine, Scarlett. You will, naturally, wish to join us! Unless you object, Luke?"
"Not at all! Come in, come in." He grabs both of them by the wrist, pulling them into the apartment and kicking the door shut with his foot. "Let the warmth out we leave the door open. Movies, yes. Shoes off by the door, please," he says to Scarlett before she steps further in, "coat on the door yes there you go." He crouches down by the bookcase near the television, starts to pull the various movies off and spreads them on the floor. "Don't mind the mess, it usually is much cleaner. Right, drinks, I am a terrible host, allow me—" He starts to stand, then tumbles as Olek puts a hand on his shoulder.
"You take care of the movies, yes? Pick something, I shall take care of the drinks."
"You will make a mess of my kitchen! I am the host! You would make fool of my hos—"
"No no, only you are much pickier over movies. I shall go, take care of drinks. Pick something. I swear I shall not put anything out of place."
Loki eyes Olek; Olek grins back, charming as can be.
"If I find one thing out of place—"
"Relaaax. Relax." Olek rubs his shoulders; it feels spectacularly nice and he lets his eyes close and head lean forward. "You stress too much." One last pat to his shoulder, then Olek leaves, pulling Scarlett with him to the kitchen. Their chatter is cheerful background noise as Loki sorts through the movies. Snippets of conversation drift around him, but he ignores them; his hand pauses as he picks up Double Indemnity.
The first noir he watched with Steve.
"Luke?"
He blinks, glancing up, and smiles.
Olek is watching him, catches sight of the movie he holds.
"Hey, let's pick something else, yes? That only makes you melancholy, and Luke, I hate to say this, but you are heartbreaking when you are sad."
Loki rolls his eyes, puts it away in favour of M.
"Wait, do you own basically every film noir worth owning?" Scarlett suddenly says. Loki near jumps out of his skin, heart-thudding; he'd forgotten she was here. He glances at the movies spread around him on the floor.
"Yes," he says, slightly smug. "And a few not worth owning, a number that influenced the early movement and creation of noir, some that were influenced by noir. Like Memento." Olek had not appreciated the collection, but it is nice someone does. He gives Olek a meaningful look, but Olek is smiling his distracted smile, watching Scarlett.
Loki frowns.
"I've always liked some of the neo-noirs, too. Do you have Chinatown?"
"Yes!" He plucks it out. "We are watching this."
"Scarlett, moya dorogaya, you do not know what you have started."
"No Russian," Loki snaps, pointing his finger at Olek.
"No Icelandic," Olek returns with a grin.
Loki regards Scarlett, who seems much more quiet than usual; she's watching Olek carefully. He frowns once more.
"No French," he tells her; he has no idea if she speaks French, but no reason to leave her out, and he hears that French is the language of love.
She blinks at him, startled, and grins.
"No French," she promises.
(That smile is so very familiar.)
They settle on the couch as the movie starts to play; he sits between the other two, settles in, stealing Olek's drink and sipping at the brandy. He likes this movie, finds himself getting wrapped up in it though he has seen it before, but he keeps getting distracted. Olek keeps half-glancing at Scarlett, and she at him. He wonders a little. Between films, she gets up to use the bathroom and he follows Olek to the floor to pick out the next movie.
"You want to switch spots?" he asks seriously.
"Hmm?"
"On the couch."
"Why? I am comfortable, you are comfortable, Scarlett is comfortable, everyone is comfortable."
"You like her."
Olek chokes on the sip of brandy he is taking.
"You do!" he crows, delighted. "That settles it. We shall switch."
Olek stares at him like he's gone mad, still struggling to get his breath back.
"She likes you. You both keep making eyes at each other; it is frankly uncomfortable." Loki grins. "Do not be ashamed. I am sure that I can be nearly so good a match maker as you! I am very observant, I can tell these things."
"You," Olek says sternly, "are completely oblivious." He puts the next movie in and drags Loki back to the couch. Scarlett raises an eye as she sees them. Loki grins at her, wide and charming, only more sure as her gaze lingers a bit on Olek. He tries to move over, so that Olek can sit next to Scarlett; Olek keeps a firm hand on his shoulder and sits down next to him.
"Someone's had a bit much to drink." Scarlett settles down on the couch again.
"Hardly." It feels like he needs explain this to everyone. "I can—"
"Drink not much more than that," Olek finishes. He glares at Olek, snatches Scarlett's drink to take a sip.
"You won't like it," Olek says, eyes on the television.
He tries it anyway, then makes himself swallow it (doesn't want to ruin his clothes).
"That was atrocious. I don't even have tomato juice, how did you make this, this is vile, and you put that in one of my glasses oh Valhalla I'll never get the taste out, you drink that?"
"You did have some, actually."
"Take it you don't like Bloody Marys then?" Scarlett takes her drink back, clearly suppressing a smile.
"Is that what you call that vile substance?"
"Yes. How have you never had a Bloody Mary before?"
"I will have you know that I amfff—" he breaks off, Olek's hand over his mouth, and elbows the Russian in the ribs.
"Very drunk," Olek says with a wince, charming as ever. Scarlett is staring at Olek again, some tension in the air between them. Loki pushes Olek's hand aside.
"Oh for Nidhogg's sake, just kiss already and stop eye-fucking over me."
Both of them stop, staring at him, and he hopes he used the correct term; Olek looks less than amused, Scarlett just surprised. He glares at them both, crossing his arms.
"Worse than Thor and Sif," he grumbles.
Scarlett laughs then, loud and long; it's a very pretty laugh.
"He thinks that... you think that I have the hots for Olek?"
Loki blinks at her.
Olek sighs.
"He is very drunk," he points out.
"This is precious. I wish I had a video camera right now. Absolutely no one will believe me later."
Olek says something sharp and angry to her in Russian. Loki thinks he might go cross-eyed at the mood whiplash, from C major to F-sharp minor, then Scarlett is replying, just as fast, the two of them almost arguing, he thinks, only he might be sick for all the sharps, neither of them quite on key.
He grabs both of them by their shirts, pulling them down.
"No Russian," he says, trying to be stern but instead coming off woozy. He looks past them to the movie; he'd forgotten about it. He quite likes Pulp Fiction, then wonders if he owns any movie he does not like. "The movie is in English. We should watch the movie. Especially if you two are not going to randomly kiss in my lap."
He lets them go, everyone easing back into their spots, tension relaxed.
This is, he thinks, nice.
Even if they were going to try and make out in his lap.
He stirs at one point but does not open his eyes, unsure when he fell asleep, sprawled against Olek, one leg dangling off the couch, the other half-resting on Scarlett's lap. Olek's hands in his hair and against his neck feel soothing, relaxing. Scarlett has a hand on his calf, small half-moons rubbed through his pants. They are talking softly, television off.
It feels a bit like warmth, home.
(not alone)
He drifts asleep again.
XXXXXX
There is a note taped to the arm of the couch when he wakes, head dull thudding and feeling more than a bit cross-eyed. He examines it briefly before he gets up.
It feels like every bone in his spine is realigning and cracking back into place. He grumbles and goes to set the kettle on to make some coffee, almost instinct directing him to the shower. He rests his head against the tile while the hot water eases the last of the aches, idly going over the events of the night before.
Olek's tension. Scarlett's surprise. The Russian. Very familiar Russian. He frowns, gets out of the shower as he hears the kettle start to shriek, and pours it into the French press.
Webster Groves and how no one Lethe knew knew her.
He adds his milk, frown growing, something not unlike icy black rage building in his temples.
That very particular look, examining and dissecting with quick efficiency, storing, and then moving on.
Obvious, he thinks, in retrospect.
He pulls his bathrobe on and steps outside.
"Natasha," he says coolly to the woman already waiting on him.
She nods her head.
"You took longer than I thought to figure it out."
"A lapse on my part." He shuts the door behind himself. "Steve, then?"
"No, actually. You."
He frowns at her.
"I've hardly done anything worth note."
"You left Steve. He wouldn't tell me anything, so here I am."
"Getting close and then what? You've long since had your moment."
She shakes her head.
"That was me. I already told SHIELD to leave you alone before I ever moved in. I wanted to see what you're like now."
"And I'm just meant to believe that?" His head is pounding, throbbing, hangover aided by this sick twisting fury (terror) that pulses in his head.
"You can believe what you want."
"Why did you stay?"
She studies him and he studies her back. He does not trust her, remembers well the last time they spoke (but can he truly consider it that, with all the times since, with her as Scarlett?). Even if she had misinterpreted what he was after, it did not change that he could not, cannot, read her.
"You make a good neighbor."
"Do not jest with me," he snarls, stepping towards her. "I am not such a fool to be—"
"You are."
He stops in his tracks, at the certainty and honesty in her voice, how few of her shields she leaves up. There is something dark in her eyes, behind them, something he has perhaps seen in one too many nightmare, something he recognizes as some echo of madness.
"You helped me move in without hardly anything, made sure I had food that first day. You introduced me to Lethe, said hello and were polite in the mornings, asked me to go places if I wasn't busy. I don't know if you just are that social that you make friends with all your neighbors, but I get a feeling you're a lot more choosey about who you spend time with and who you just greet."
She pauses for a second then adds (he knows this is calculated and it does nothing to change the fact his anger is melting):
"It was nice, being treated like just another person. Being a sort-of friend, not having someone look at me and be frightened because all they know are the stories. Getting to see you now, with your own change."
He frowns at her and thinks.
"You said that SHIELD won't get involved?"
"You don't have your magic, you aren't intent on committing any crimes. Honestly, you're making a better effort at being a good person than I am in a shorter amount of time." She flicks a smile. "Might just be who you love though; mine tends more towards swearing and killing people, yours tends towards saving kittens and trying to find every alternative to a fight he can."
It's like some sort of weight he didn't even know was there is gone.
(Part of him, vicious and cold and spite, whispers it is because he is too weak to be a threat, too human, magicless; he shoves it down and away. If he wants, he can be a threat. He still has his mind, and as much as it betrays him it is still his greatest asset; he suspects Natasha knows that.)
He takes a sip of his coffee and studies her some more, but he doesn't feel like he's going to snap. Just like he has a hangover.
"Steve didn't tell you anything?"
"No."
Then:
"He still misses you."
"I'm sure." Loki sips his coffee to avoid saying more, to avoid acknowledging more, to center again. "I am not telling you what happened."
She smirks.
"I wouldn't expect you to. You certainly wouldn't have told Scarlett. Want to get breakfast?"
He finds he feels absolutely no obligation to do so; no wounded looks, no worry, no threat of repercussion if he disagrees, no obligation because the other person knows what is best.
"This... this whatever it is. It does not go beyond us?"
"Not if you don't want."
He hums.
"You're buying. Because you lied."
She grins.
"Fair enough."
XXXXXX
Somehow, it becomes a routine of sorts: who has lied most buying for who has lied least when they eat together. Not spilling secrets, no, but simply aimless talking.
Something that helps, to speak with someone who understands in some strange way, a certain measure of self-loathing, can understand why it is there at all. Someone equally... broken, in their own way.
He wouldn't call her a friend, but then not everyone needs to be such. Janelle has mentioned group therapy and support networks; Natasha fits well enough in that role, friend or no.
XXXXXX
Some days, he very nearly feels well.
Oh, his anger still bubbles beneath the surface, still sometimes catches himself looking at his hands for any glimmer of magic, still struggles to sleep, still sometimes finds himself staring a bit too fascinated at ledges and how very far things are (at visible landing). He still hates his own weaknesses and that they need be acknowledged at all. Some days feel as if they slide backwards, some days feel like nothing but some manic hate, but it does not stop him from doing, not anymore (not often).
He does not need Steve. Not to decide what to do, where to go, what is best.
(Has been able, of late, to make more than one decision, however small, that proves as much.)
But, he thinks, he would like to try things again with Steve. Just try. To know how this will work, now that he has a voice, however quiet, and a willingness to use it, however shy.
If it is only the first hints of spring air, well... spring has always been a season for the bold.
He calls the last Tuesday of March.