Crimson and Viridian: Everything Burns Chapter 25: The Taste That Your Lips Allow, an avengers fanfic

Crimson and Viridian:

Everything Burns

Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.

Warnings: For moar violence, and fresh romancin'. Also, movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.
Notes: What is left unsaid.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Taste That Your Lips Allow

Bruce sits quietly in a corner of the makeshift lab that is furthest away from Hansen and her computers. The towers of medical equipment that surrounds the examination table block Natasha from view and he studies the cold concrete floor while he listens to the bleeps of the various new machines the ambitious billionaire has been attached to as her recovery becomes something more tangible than hope. The cement is hard and transfers a chill to his bones that lingers and aches in pulses up his spine. In his lap, his fingers curl into fists sporadically, temporarily relaxing before tightening once more.

In the past, his life had been governed by the threat of capture and the threat the Hulk posed to the innocent people around him. It had given him something to focus on apart from the crushing fear and anticipation of his next Incident. Then, when he'd learned to give in to the anger completely—forced to abandon his love and escape the delusion for a cure—he'd found his purpose in putting his mind and skills to a better cause. Not noble, because a part of him knew that surrounding himself by those who served no interest to the world powers was the best form of protection, allowing him an anonymity he could only achieve among those considered to be the lowest tier in this cruel and classist world.

But that had been then.

Now, back within a society he'd resigned himself to relinquish, he feels powerless. Purposeless. He refuses to accept his curse—to allow himself to embrace the Hulk virus contaminating his veins—but he sits teetering on the edge, abhorring the monster sitting within and recognizing the contribution the Hulk can provide to a team like the Avengers. An opportunity to protect rather than destroy. Yet, without purpose comes an absence in control and he feels himself unwinding slowly from within, whatever restraint he'd thought he'd established revealing itself to be little more than pretense.

The Hulk lurks at the blurred edge of shadow that separates consciousness from subconscious, light catching only vague shapes of the creature and massive body stilled by an uncharacteristic calm. Watching. Waiting. There's intelligence. Intelligence Bruce never thought he could expect from the brutish beast and he feels it like a threat that trickles icy paths from his heart to his veins.

A quiet groan distracts him from his thoughts.

Then, Hansen, "Oh thank God. She's awake."

Bruce hesitates. Hansen moves to the examination table and Bruce hears another groan, louder and stronger than the first. Slowly, he rises to his feet and joins the other scientist, relieved when he sees unmarred flesh being swiftly hidden beneath Hansen's medical coat as she helps Natasha sit up.

"I'm … awake?" Natasha mumbles sleepily, as if awakening from a long nap rather than a week-long coma.

"Don't try to move," Bruce instructs quietly while Hansen marvels at Natasha's exposed back. The coat lays loosely over Natasha's front side, revealing enough of her bare flesh to confirm that she is completely healed—as if the fleshy lump Bruce had encountered had been a figment of some waking nightmare rather than reality.

Natasha blinks up at him blearily through moist lashes, squinting. " … Loki?"

Hansen looks up, startled and confused.

"Close," Bruce snorts, shaking his head. "Better looking."

"Bruce," Natasha sighs, frowning. She blinks again and seems to register his presence and her environment at once. Much more lucidly, she asks, "What … What are you doing here?"

"I didn't want to give you the benefit of acting like the martyr and thinking you're the only one who's willing to make a sacrifice to win this thing," Bruce says with a loose grin.

Natasha huffs, a laugh accompanying the short exhale. "Damn. Thought I'd get to play hero all by myself."

"Not this time." Dropping the grin, Bruce frowns, sternly adding, "I might not approve—at all—but … I'm your friend. So—I'm here."

Natasha's expression is unreadable as she studies him, eyes sharp and calculating.

Cautiously, Hansen circles around Natasha, looking between her and Bruce, bemused. "Did it work?" She asks Natasha, frowning. She seems wary of believing what her eyes are seeing—is watching Natasha like she expects the other woman to self-combust. "The—serum—you …"

"Well, I'm not dead," Natasha says after a moment, looking away from Bruce to smile at Hansen. "That's a start."

Bruce's frown deepens and Hansen doesn't seem comforted by the assessment. Hansen grimaces, undoubtedly recalling the horrific condition Natasha had condemned them to witness. Hansen's eyes survey every inch of visible skin, her breathing slightly irregular with her excitement and unease.

"What about … the rest?" Hansen asks. "What about—?"

Natasha stands from the table and takes a step forward, letting the coat drop to her feet. Neither Bruce nor Hansen look away, because in sync with the straightening of her posture, Bruce sees little punctures form along her arms, legs; across her collarbone and down her abdominals.

"Oh—my … God," Maya gasps, clapping her hands over her mouth as she watches Natasha's transformation in horror.

Natasha grins and says, "This," as a gold liquid-like material bleeds from the punctures and spreads outwards, until it covers every inch of flesh. "Super-compressed and stored in the hollows of my bones. I now carry the crucial undersheath of the Iron Woman suit inside my body. It's wired directly into my brain. I can control the Iron Woman with thought—just like another limb. Inspired by Doctor Octopus' tentacles and Loki's Jotun form."

Hansen steps away, pale and visibly shaken by Natasha's demonstration in a way she didn't seem to be even with what had become of Natasha following the injection of the serum.

Bruce frowns, eyeing the gold sheath and calling upon his memory for his notes on Extremis. "You modified the dosage."

Natasha's grin widens, unabashed and openly proud of what her genius had accomplished in conjunction with Hansen's work. "Yeah. Between you and Steve, there's plenty of brawn. I had Maya remove all the 'super powers' from the compiler. Instead, I can interface directly with machines and my armor." She pauses, her eyes glazing and focusing on something distant. She blinks, and her attention focuses, sharper than before. "Standard thought process appears to have remained at a human norm, so that's good."

Skeptically, Hansen moves to the chair by her computer. She can't manage to meet Natasha's eyes, aiming her words to the floor. "You know we'll have to run some tests to ensure there is no strain on your brain."

"Yeah, yeah," Natasha waves a dismissive hand. "But, look—"

Next to Hansen, on her station, the silver briefcase pops open to reveal a compressed version of the Iron Woman suit. Hansen jumps and Bruce feels dread pool in his gut.

"How did you do that?" Hansen exclaims.

Natasha smiles. "I am connected to all my computer software, now."

On the computer, a video messaging program pops up, ringing. Before Maya can address it, Natasha's still image appears and a voice echoes out through the speakers. "Hello, Maya—it's Natasha."

Hansen swivels away from the computer screen to look at Natasha. Natasha remains smiling, lips unmoving.

The computer says, in a voice Bruce now recognizes is, in fact, Natasha's, "Impressive, right?"

"You are freaking me out!" Hansen snaps, moving away from both Natasha and her computer.

"Don't watch this next bit, then," Natasha grins unapologetically. The dismantled suit rattles, then begins to hover. Natasha doesn't even blink, and there seems to be no delay in command as the small thrusters on the segments of armor ignite and propel the armor to Natasha where they neatly conform to her body. It's slimmer, without the bulk of the versions that came prior. The color scheme is inverted from her traditional armor; gold with hotrod red accents along the secondary panels.

Hansen is speechless. Bruce steps forward, ominous feeling swelling in his belly as the final plate locks into place and Natasha's face is completely hidden behind the visor. "Fancy," Bruce mutters, not quite succeeding in concealing his distaste.

"Vectorized repulsor field," Natasha explains. "Just slightly pushing off from different angles."

Bruce isn't listening, instead remembering the way the gold liquid-like undersheath had spilled out from the marrow of her bones, breaching the unnatural punctures in her flesh and weaving into a second layer of skin.

"Iron Woman," Natasha declares proudly. "Inside and out."

Bruce stares at her and thinks, what have you done?

"You—you need to—" Hansen takes a breath, struggling to regain her composure. She looks like she wants to be sick. "You shouldn't exert yourself so soon after awakening. The strain on your internal organs alone—"

"Grew new ones," Natasha announces.

Hansen stares, disgusted. She shakes her head, mumbling, "I need a drink," before stumbling around her station and wandering off towards the exit.

Natasha is silent as the other woman leaves, the Iron Woman unnaturally lifelike in the way it hugs her body. Bruce thinks he can even make out the rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

"This is the Extremis Armor," Bruce concludes. "This was the armor Loki was helping you build. Did he—"

"He knew it was for the Extremis."

"But—he didn't know you intended to use Extremis on yourself, did he?" Bruce bites back the disapproval. He doesn't want to fight. It's too late for that, anyway. Natasha had gotten her way, just as she always did.

He tries not to allow the bitterness to overshadow his concern.

"He might have—uh—been led to believe that Extremis would be refocused to function within the suit itself."

Bruce says nothing, but he expects his disappointment is evident. Natasha drops her visor and reaches behind her head, plucking a tiny memory chip from the base of her skull.

"Here. I want you to take this." She holds it out to him, her expression wavering, as if struggling to conceal some vulnerable emotion. He hopes it is regret as he accepts the chip and she says, "No one can know about it. Absolutely no one."

"What is it?"

"You understand just as well as I—even at this stage, the Extremis is experimental. It's dangerous, which means—" She squares her shoulders, expression becoming like stone, perfectly neutral even as she can't seem to hold his eyes. "Which means, I'm dangerous. If something—anything were to happen—to compromise me—that chip is the only thing that could stop me."

Bruce feels his blood go cold. "A virus?"

Natasha shakes her head. "No. Extremis is the virus." Her eyes drop to the chip, a strange emotion flickering behind her eyes. "That—that's me. That's pre-Extremis me. All memories and—"

Bruce is already pushing the chip back into her hand, shaking his head, "This is ridiculous. I can't take this. Why would you even trust me with something—"

"I trust you, man," Natasha says seriously, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze. She curls both her hands over his and he feels the chip in his palm digging lightly into his skin. "Everyone else—they wouldn't be able to make the call. You … you could."

"So, something happens to compromise you and the Extremis and I just—what? Reboot you."

Natasha shrugs, dropping her hands to her sides and stepping back. "Basically."

He frowns. "But there's no guarantee it'll work, is there?"

"Seventy-five percent chance of success."

He scowls, furious but too heavy with grief and resignation to argue. "That does not inspire hope, Tash."

"I know," she sighs, shrugging again. "But—to be Iron Woman, to be an Avenger—I've gotta commit. That's what Cap would do. The way things are heading, if it's not handled with full commitment—hundreds of thousands of innocent people will die. So this is what I have to do. Because—this is what I can do."

How noble, Bruce doesn't say, resentment curling into a knot at his throat. He shouldn't begrudge her success—knows that it is in large part for the greater good. But Bruce is familiar with the allure that comes of treading the morally gray areas of scientific curiosity—of accomplishing the impossible just to see if it can be done. Natasha's motives might be mostly good, but Bruce can see the barely contained pride that threatens to burst out of her with every other word and smile. Bruce recognizes this, too. Only, his pride had been short-lived—a mere seconds—before the realization of the monster he'd created robbed him of whatever sense of accomplishment he might have deservedly felt.

But Natasha Stark doesn't fail, does she?

She treads the blade's edge of impossibility and walks away unscathed.

That could be you, a sinister voice whispers in his mind and he feels the tendrils of a dark and familiar emotion take root.

That should be you.

The Jotun-blue of his little brother's face sparkles as the daylight refracts off the crystalized sweat along hardened flesh. It is not merely a façade, as Thor had erringly believed it to be when he'd foolishly placed a worried touch to Loki's brow and received a sharp and painful reminder on the disagreeable nature of a Jotun's skin. It would be some days before his hand was fully healed, but the pain is nothing to the persistent grief that had slotted into place in the vacancy Loki had left in his heart.

There are days he wakes and forgets to feel his absence or the pain of his betrayal and his own failure as a brother. It takes only one look at his mother and the wariness that hangs about his father's shoulders like a heavy cloak—and then all the shame and all the guilt returns, their force and weight almost crippling. Some days, he feels such an anger towards his father that all he can do is flee—seek distraction within a different Realm lest he allow the anger to become something darker. Something toxic.

With his time spent on Midgard, Thor had learned what it was to lead and care for those incapable of defending against the greater threats the universe was capable of providing. This compassion and his gratitude had blinded him to the harsh nature of the All-Father, though Loki and he had always known it was there; had been raised upon it and learned to curb Odin's mighty wrath by relying upon each other and allowing their mother to dispel Odin's darkest moods. His grief at the loss of his brother had numbed him to the All-Father's temper—but upon Loki's temporary exile to the mortal Realm, given time to heal, Thor had seen that his father's forgiveness was not easily won. Though capable of inflicting great harm upon the hearts of his sons so long as his will was abided as King, Odin could never suffer even the smallest of slights against himself. He would bear a grudge for all eternity, if he was so inclined, and eternity for an immortal was a great thing.

"How long will Father continue to punish you, brother?"

Where Loki had once taken great enjoyment in playing his mischievous games within the mortal's Realm, Thor knew there was only the blackest resentment for the place the Midgardians held within Thor's heart. He feared what might become of his brother if allowed to sit in his bitterness among the very creatures he swore to punish for being granted Thor's love.

"Talking to yourself, now?"

The voice is unexpected and startles him from his thoughts. Turning in the chair, he finds Lady Stark at the door, armed with a bowl filled generously with colorful fruits.

She steps into the room with a grin to deliver the bowl to the small table beside Loki's bed. "Not particularly reassuring, Big Guy. Given that you're still under lockdown for playing house to Amora's crazy, you don't wanna give people a reason to think you're still hearing little voices in your head."

"Lady Stark," Thor says, belatedly standing to greet her properly. "I was not aware you'd returned."

"Just got back," she shrugs, turning her attention to Loki. A curious expression settles over her face, subtle and mostly contained, yet clearly one of concern. "He's still …"

"I do not understand why it has taken him so long to heal," Thor murmurs, moving to stand at her side. "I feel he might benefit of Asgardian—"

"We'll wait," Stark says, shaking her head without looking away from his brother. "Let's wait a little longer."

"We've waited long enough."

"If we send Loki back with you, exactly how would he benefit?" Stark argues, stern. "He's a criminal. They'll set him up in a cell and give him the prisoner treatment. They might even decide it would be more convenient to keep him in such a weakened state until they can find a better way to restrain him."

"And what purpose does he serve you, Lady Stark?" Thor counters, scowling down at her challengingly. He saw no small amount of his brother in her and concern for his brother seemed to heighten his suspicion towards all who displayed even the slightest bit of interest in Loki. "Your people sought the Tesseract for its power. How do I know you do not wish the same of Loki? You were the one to advocate his release back to this Realm. Into your custody. What interest do you have in my brother's power?"

Stark looks up at him slowly, eyes calculating. A lazy, familiar smirk crawls across her lips and it strikes him as so profoundly Loki that the nostalgia falters his convictions and Thor finds himself forgetting why he's even arguing.

"I'm flattered that you'd think I'd be so conniving," she says without answering a single question. Her smirks shifts to a smile, no less mischievous, but considerably more sympathetic. "You want Loki back? Fine. But not before he's recovered. He can make his own decisions then."

"What if he never recovers?"

"He will."

Banner appears then, lingering at the door, and Stark's attention shifts to the doctor while Thor continues to study her face for any hint of deceit. As with Loki, however, it was impossible to see that which she did not want to be seen. But Loki's spirit seems soaked into her presence and Thor has known his brother long enough to feel instinctively suspicious, even without a hint of proof.

Banner clears his throat and says, "I think they were waiting until you returned, but the Director wants me to—"

"Oh, right. I forgot," Stark mutters, humor swiftly dispelled. "Why were they waiting on me?"

"They may have been led to believe that JARVIS had rigged the Manor so that only a select group of people could enter unharmed."

"JARVIS isn't even installed into the—" Stark incredulity dissolves into something smug. "Huh. I didn't think you had it in you."

Banner shrugs, taking a step into the room.

Thor straightens, shifting so he can better observe their interaction. He notices the stiffness in Banner's posture, where before he had held himself as unimposing as possible. There is a hardness in his eyes, as well, that had not been present before, and by contrast, Thor realizes that the troubled air which had clouded Stark seemed lighter, her eyes almost brighter. Though these humans were still mostly strangers to him, Thor was experienced in battle and war and the tactician in him observes these details in his fellow Avengers. For once, however, he wants to be a brother before a warrior, so he says nothing even as he recognizes it is resentment that has darkened Banner's eyes.

"Pepper and Happy are worried," Banner says suddenly, speaking to Stark still. "They want to see him."

Oblivious to his displeasure, Stark sighs and shakes her head. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Cap's been stay here for the past couple of days," Banner informs her. He nods to Thor. "And we've got Loki's brother."

Crossing her arms, Stark looks to Thor, expression firm and mouth set in displeasure. "Aside from the talking to yourself, which I'm willing to ignore—you're good,right?"

Thor nods. "I believe all traces of Amora's wicked magic are gone."

"Do you understand why I haven't allowed my closest friends to visit?" Stark says, words laced with accusation. Thor holds her glare and she asks, "Do you understand?"

"Because—" He realizes it isn't simply anger, but fear that he sees in her eyes. He had not seen it before, blinded by his own anger towards Amora and the damage his hands had wrought for her deception. He bows his head deeply, reliving his shame as he murmurs, "You feared I was not in control. That I would—bring them … harm. However unintentionally."

"They're not warriors, Thor. They're people," Banner echoes Stark's concern, speaking carefully and as a man who understood the shame and guilt Thor felt now. "They're just people."

Thor has never known such open distrust and it disgusts him to know that it is well founded. That Amora had so effectively wedged herself between himself and his allies that they saw in him a greater threat than even Loki. Loki, who had waged war against this planet not so long ago while Thor had taken up arms against him alongside the Avengers.

Stark exhales loudly, saying, "You know what? S.H.I.E.L.D. can wait. I'm calling Pepper. I'll stay."

"I'll be here as well, Natasha," Banner says. He looks to Thor and smiles empathetically. "Sorry, Thor. It's not that we don't trust you. But we don't trust Amora. And she—well, she has a track record for going after Natasha where it hurts."

Thor nods, forcing a smile he hopes can be as convincing as if forged by his brother. "I understand. I take no offense."

Pepper and Happy barely spare Natasha more than a hug and hello before they've invaded Loki's room and joined Thor in huddling around the Trickster's unconscious body. Peter is with them, trailing after them hesitantly and freezing altogether the moment he sees Natasha.

"Hey—ah—"

Natasha doesn't give him the opportunity to say anything more, arching a brow and pivoting on a heel as she leads the way to the parlor. Peter follows behind her and she gestures for him to take a seat as she makes a B-line for the untouched tray of whiskey and decanters at the bar.

"Drink, Peter?" She asks, smiling to herself as he stammers his response.

"No, I—ah—"

"Coke it is," she murmurs, ducking behind the bar to grab a can from the fridge. She rejoins him with both drinks and takes the armchair opposite the sofa he occupies. He holds the can between his hands without pulling the tab and Natasha watches him squirm, his eyes on the area rug between them.

Peter sits bowed over his soda, shoulders slumped and arms locked between his knees like a kid who's expecting to be chastised by a parent. Natasha only ever had Obi as a parental figure to draw inspiration from, however, and she isn't sure how she feels about taking on any sort of authoritative role in Peter's life. She can play the fun and irresponsible boss well, but she's not a parent. That particular gene clearly skipped several generations. Still, she doesn't want to push Peter away—and she always pushes people away. She feels it in her bones—an inexplicable draw to the boy that she cannot put into words. He's not just a friend and she can't imagine he's family because she's known him for months and it took Loki far longer just to worm himself into her good graces. She has no idea what he is or how he got there, but …

In a different part of the house, she can hear every word that is being exchanged between Pepper and an unconscious Loki through the Stark phones they all dutifully carry in their pockets. She can hear the conversation Bruce and Steve are having in another room and is pleased when Bruce adheres to their tacit agreement by maintaining his silence on Natasha's 'upgrades'. Extremis is something S.H.I.E.L.D. cannot know about, which means Steve could not know about it either.

"Are you … are you gunna say anything?" Peter asks miserably when the silence stretches for too long.

Right.

Natasha blinks, forcing herself to collect her attention and focus it within the room. Even then, she is vividly aware of the undercurrents of technology that power the Manor like a buzz in her veins. She is going to have to learn how to create an AOE for her new senses to limit the data being streamed into her brain.

For now, though, she has to focus.

"To be fair, I would have figured it out eventually," she says, frowning when her voice sounds distant to her own ears. She concentrates on Peter's face and says, "It's stupid to think you could have kept it from me for long. If you really wanted to keep your secret, you wouldn't have applied for an internship with me." Natasha takes a break to recollect her thoughts when Bruce and Steve move to join Pepper in Loki's room. She downs her whiskey in a gulp before lowering the glass to her lap. "Spiderman was using OsTech. And I could go ahead and waste our time listing your many connections to OsCorp, but that wasn't how I knew."

Peter looks up, startled.

Then, his brows draw together and hurt flickers behind his eyes—betrayal. " … Loki."

It's easier to concentrate, then. To pull herself away from the rest of the world and focus on Peter and Peter's guilt and Peter's pain. She had seen it coming for months—observed in silence while Peter and Loki played their little games. It had been Peter's mistake—one born of adolescence and pride—that led him to believe he could trust Loki to keep the secret of his identity from Natasha when he owed the boy nothing. Peter had assumed that because neither Loki nor Natasha had brought up the matter of his identity, his secret had remained.

Loki had played the boy well. For each day that passed in which Peter believed that Loki had kept the truth of Spiderman hidden, Peter's innocence and youth had allowed him to develop a sense of camaraderie with the Trickster, against his better judgment. Loki had sowed the seeds of doubt within the boy, creating an ally out of a potential enemy—one whose hand would hesitate in that crucial moment if pitted against Loki, and a weakened tool against whatever Loki might be plotting.

Yet, for all of Loki's cleverness, Natasha was familiar with this game. Peter might have been compromised, but Natasha had created two very exploitable weaknesses in Pepper and Happy. Loki's affection for them was genuine, of this she had no doubt. Was certain because she had been similarly blind to their place in her heart until it was far too late to be rid of them.

Peter's hurt now is real. She can easily guess his thoughts—the bloom of resentment that is directed towards both Loki and himself. He's scolding himself for thinking Loki was anything other than the villain he'd believed him to be; for trusting even when he'd known not to.

"He had to tell me, Pete," Natasha says, careful to inject a note of sympathy in her words. She doesn't know how to comfort and it surprises her just how important it is to her not to upset the boy further by bluntly stating facts and expecting him to understand.

Peter says nothing, staring incredulously into space, his angry scowl in conflict with the disappointment in his eyes.

"And I'm glad he did, Peter. If anything had happened to you—as Spiderman—" Natasha sighs, touching her fingers to her brow as a mild migraine begins to form from the stream of information her brain is processing. The Extremis serum eventually does its job and dispels the discomfort. "Knowing who you were allowed me to protect you in ways I might not have been inclined to had I only known you as Spiderman."

"Thanks," Peter mumbles bitterly, "I think."

"In the meantime—don't worry about it," Natasha adds, smiling. "I'm not."

Peter sniffs, scowl softening by only a small degree. " … Why do people say 'meantime'?"

"Because it's the average between now and then," Natasha replies sarcastically. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

"What am I supposed to say? I've got nothing. My biggest secret—the one thing keeping all those whackos from hunting down my Aunt May and anyone I care about—and it's revealed. Just like that." Peter throws himself back against the sofa, frustration wearing down his ire. "Who else knows?"

Perhaps, then, it wasn't a good idea to parade yourself in front of Loki, she doesn't say. Peter doesn't look like he's up for any criticisms. "Loki, myself and Steve," she answers, expecting his response precisely.

"Cap knows?" Peter balks, sitting up to gape at her in dismay.

Natasha shrugs. "I told him. He wanted to enlist Spiderman's help for the Avengers so I—"

He blinks. "Awes—"

"Not awesome," she scowls, leveling him with a pointed, are you serious? look. "For all the reasons you just listed, kid. You have family to look out for, Pete. It's too dangerous."

Peter huffs, dropping his gaze to his Coke when he can't seem to hold hers. He toys with the tab for a second before popping it open and muttering, "Is that your call, or Cap's?"

"Both."

Peter is not happy, but if she can survive terrorist organizations, vengeful Asgardians and an alien invasion, she can deal with one moody teenager. In this, there is no doubt in her mind she is doing the right thing. Steve had agreed with her when she'd revealed Spiderman's identity and maybe that didn't change the fact that both of them had been willing to allow a perfect stranger, though no less a child, to endanger himself, but Peter was no stranger and that made all the difference.

I won't have your blood on my hands, kid, she thinks—and momentarily panics when she realizes she's passed the thought to the boy's phone. She retrieves the message before it has even registered with the device and destroys it.

Shaking her head, she inhales slowly and drops her gaze to the empty decanter in her hand, the tiniest drop of liquid clutched precariously to the lip of the glass as it sits in a slant against her lap. She tips the glass enough that the single drop meets the fabric of her jeans and bleeds a dark patch into the denim. Extremis gives her total control over every piece of Stark technology and it's suddenly so surreal that there can still be aspects of reality that are not hers to govern. Technology has been the constant in her life, but it occurs to her that there is so much she had never known to appreciate. The patch of alcohol cools and she feels it against the skin of her thigh, but unlike the text message, there is no undo.

"I don't get it," Peter says after a moment, pulling her attention forward. "Why aren't you more upset?"

Natasha looks up at him—youthful face and earnest eyes—and tries to recall the faces of Richard and Mary Parker. Connecting to the nearest Stark phone, an internet article featuring both parents comes to mind before her own memories of the couple can surface. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, Natasha frowns and stands as she makes her way back to the bar.

She murmurs, "I can't stop you from being Spiderman, Peter."

"You and Cap don't seem to have a problem deciding things for me, though," Peter points out, sounding younger than he ever has.

Natasha keeps her back to him as she pours herself a double shot of whiskey. "I said I can't stop you from being Spiderman. I didn't say I couldn't stop you from being an Avenger."

"It's not fair," Peter argues petulantly, sulking now, of all things.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha downs the whiskey as she keeps her eyes focused on the wall of liquors behind the bar. "Of course you don't think it's fair. If you were old enough to understand why you're too young to become involved with the Avengers then we wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place."

Peter falls silent at that. When Natasha glances over her shoulder, she finds him frowning at the carpet between his feet. She pours herself another shot and downs it quickly before rejoining him, this time taking a seat next to him on the sofa.

"Enough. Don't be grumpy. This is for your own good. You're just going to have to trust me," she says, placating. She smiles, reclining comfortably against the back cushions and reaching out to clap a hand over his shoulder. "How have you been?"

"Freaking out," he replies, a bit dramatically, eyes wide and brows high. He keeps his gaze downward, shaking his head as if still struggling to make sense of things. "I mean, everything happened—it happened so fast and then—" He looks back to her sharply, frustration gone. He looks upset, but worried. "Where were you? You just bailed and … I didn't know …"

She holds her smile, giving his shoulder a squeeze before dropping her hand to her lap. "I had to take care of some things."

He frowns. "What's going to happen to Loki?"

"He's going to get better," she states matter-of-factly. At Peter's disbelieving look, she chuckles. "Nothing's changed, Pete. You don't need to worry so much."

He snorts. "It's kinda impossible not to worry."

"Well, I'll take care of everything," she promises.

"You can't just take care of everything," Peter snorts. He rolls his eyes and she laughs out loud at the impressive level of sarcasm contained within the gesture. He grins at the sound, adding, "Not by yourself."

"I'm not by myself," Natasha replies with more ease than she'd have expected.

"Yeah, but Loki's not even—"

His humor vanishes completely and Natasha is too stunned by the fact that he still thinks of Loki as part of their dysfunctional team when the real heroes are standing just outside the parlor doors. She doesn't want to question the odd warmth it brings to her chest—has enough trouble deciphering her own feelings for the Trickster and doesn't feel inclined to analyze why it should mean anything that Peter hold any sort of fondness for Loki as well.

"He … saved my life," Peter murmurs quietly—in awe, almost, like it's something he's only realizing now. Natasha watches his face closely, fascinated by the sincerity of his emotions and affection. "I need to tell him that."

Natasha sniffs quietly. "It's Loki. No you don't."

His awe seems to grow, dispelling whatever resentment might have remained for the Trickster completely. Peter lays back against the sofa, shoulder flush to hers as he stares up at the ceiling in wonder.

"Man, he's really kind've awesome, isn't he?"

Natasha chuckles quietly, shaking her head as she mimics is repose. "He really kind've is."

The carpet rustles softly as the bedroom door is opened.

It's late. Natasha finds the time immediately made available to her mind as she looks up to see Peter peeking in with a conspiratorial smirk.

"Hey," he calls out in a hush, his eyes darting between where she is sitting cross-legged on the bed and Loki, who is stretched out beside her, unconscious. "I bought the stuff you wanted."

Natasha grins, holding back her laughter so as not to alert anyone else that might still be awake within the Manor. She reaches out a hand expectantly and Peter silently crosses the room to deliver the small plastic bag.

"Everyone's in their rooms," he adds, whispering. "Ms. Potts found a room for Thor, too, so he's not sitting here all night with Loki."

"Sweet," Natasha whispers back, peering inside the bag to ensure that Peter had acquired what she'd requested. "Wouldn't want Thor wandering in here and asking questions."

Peter snorts, offering a smart-ass salute before ducking out of the room. Natasha chuckles soundlessly, shaking her head, and turns over the contents of the bag to the bed.

Her eyes dart to Loki's still face and she swallows uncomfortable as her smile vanishes.

She's forgetting something.

A million-trillion tiny new details of information flooding through her system and she's forgetting something. She thinks there is something significant to be uncovered within the oblivion of unconsciousness from the days she spent being rebuilt by Extremis, but all she can recall are faltering memories of Yinsen that leave her feeling more conflicted than she'd expected to feel after everything. It had been her decision every step of the way and she'd chosen Extremis—she'd chosen to take that gamble and risk everything for the chance to save everyone that mattered. It had been selfish, but Natasha Stark was always selfish.

Anxiety sits like a bad taste that echoes the hopeless resentment that had followed upon awakening to discover a thick cylinder of metal in her chest and a car battery at her side. She feels different in a way she's not sure she can accept and she dreads that regret might soon replace the satisfaction of achieving the improbable yet again.

What she needs is control. If she can control the flood of information being downloaded into her mind, that odd feeling of unease might disappear. It's like any new piece of technology, only for the first time, Natasha has to actively participate in the processes to establish order. The feeling of being balanced at the edge of a cliff with infinity beneath her—that will pass. The queasiness and discomfort will pass. The discomfort is natural. Her conscious mind is adjusting—just like any normal person might need to adjust when taking a seat behind a potentially volatile piece of machinery.

It had to be done, she reminds herself. Ruthlessly, she closes herself off to any further doubts and shoves away at her insecurities, banishing them to somewhere impossible to access. She straightens her back; focuses on the present and reminds herself, I'm a Stark.

She leaves Loki's side only to make herself a cup of coffee, lamenting the fact that no coffee is ever quite as good as Loki's as she quietly pads her way through the Manor and back to the room.

The thin fabric of Loki's shirt looks new and expensive. Natasha figures Pepper must have brought along an accompaniment of clothing for him, given that what few possessions he'd accumulated had likely been lost in the destruction of the Tower. She smiles to herself, scanning the room as she takes a seat at the edge of the bed. Sure enough, she spots several shopping bags peeking out from the closet.

"Favoritism," Natasha sniffs, looking back to Loki's peacefully sleeping face.

In the dim lighting of the room, the blue of the reactor through her tank top glows unnaturally, reflecting against the blue of Loki's Jotun skin.

Frowning, she holds the warm mug close to her chest; it clinks delicately against the reactor. "I shouldn't need it anymore. Extremis worked. The shrapnel is—should be—gone." She lowers a hand and finds Loki's, twining their fingers together as she watches his face. "Hey," she murmurs, squeezing their hands together, the chill of his flesh numbing her bones. "Sorry. I'm always going on about my problems, aren't I? It's not my fault you're so easy to talk to when you're unconscious." She sniffs, smiling softly. "Well, you're always easy to talk to. You're just less likely to pick up on something I don't want you to when you're unconscious."

She doesn't release his hand. Instead, she reaches awkwardly over their linked hands to leave her coffee mug on the nightstand. With her freed hand, she gently tugs at the bedding pulled up under his arms and pulls up on the shirt to reveal the welt of sapphire blue skin where she remembered vicious red.

Carefully, she lays her palm over the mostly healed wound. "Everyone's so worried about you. I wish you could see that. Pepper, Happy, Peter, your brother—Bruce and even, I think—even Steve. But he's also just stupidly nice. Too much compassion. So, take that with a grain of salt."

She feels his steady pulse beneath her hand and in the press of their palms. Her own is lost to the hum of the reactor that she hears like a living thing in her mind—like a thousand buzzing insects, almost overwhelmingly intense.

Bowing her head, she brings their joined hands to her mouth, pressing a kiss to their knuckles.

"I'm doing what needs to be done and I wish you were here so I could tell you how much it scares me," she murmurs against their hands, closing her eyes. "You'd tell me I was an idiot, though. Which is why I can't tell you. Even with Pepper and Happy, you only know how to look out for yourself. You wouldn't understand why I need this. Why this is important. Because this isn't your play. I'm not doing what you'd do or what I'd do, I'm doing what Cap would do. I'm committing."

Tears burn in her eyes but don't fall. Her breath catches in her chest when she tries to breathe in and she tightens her grip in his hand, wishing she could somehow leech what little strength remained into herself.

"It's so fucking terrifying," she whispers, voice barely audible. "And it's right, I know it is, but—the reactor—It's the reason I did all this, after all. It's the reason I became Iron Woman. What if—what if without it—what if I go back to being the old Natasha?" Hot and wet, her tears burn as they cut streaks down her cheeks to pool at the corners of her mouth. "I don't know who I am without it. Extremis—Extremis almost doesn't seem worth it. And I've always hated this stupid reactor—fucking eyesore—but if losing it means I go back to being that person I used to be—I don't think Extremis is worth it."

It had never been a consideration.

She'd never thought about what would happen when the reactor became obsolete. A part of her had always believed it to be permanent—and rightfully so. A daily reminder of what she'd lost and the new life she had discovered. She had a long list of mistakes that still needed righting and it occurred to her now that the reactor had held her to this path of redemption like the proverbial gun to the back of her head. Without it, what was to stop her from deciding it would be too much of a bother to care about anyone but herself? Without the ever-present shackle to restrain her, she was just as much the ticking time bomb as Bruce.

Natasha was not inherently noble. She knew that at her core she was as selfish and disturbed as the Trickster God beside her. In Loki, she sees everything she could have become.

"Maybe I only think I've changed," she mumbles, sniffling as she rubs her wet cheeks against her shoulders. "I'm not the crying type, but this just feels—I just feel so powerless and I thought—with Extremis … "

Carefully, she lowers herself into the narrow space between him and the edge of the bed, maneuvering his arm without releasing his hand so that she can comfortably rest her head on his shoulder. She pulls his arm so it rests across her chest, locked hands cradled to the crook of her neck and shoulder. She feels Loki's temperature through the bed sheets where her back lines up with his side and his arm provides a chill that would be uncomfortable if it hadn't become so familiar.

"I just really need you here, man," Natasha murmurs into the silence of the room.

The Stark Manor library is the last place Steve would expect to be found, so he's surprised when he hears the old oak doors creak open. He thinks it might be Natasha, but instead, it's Peter. The boy wanders in, eyes pinned to the towering walls lined with books and the endless rows of bookshelves down the length of the room. He doesn't seem to notice Steve by the fireplace where he occupies one of two leather armchairs until he's well within the room.

"Ah—hey, Cap," Peter smiles, hovering nervously in the middle of the lounging area. "This place is pretty insane, huh?"

"It's a bit more familiar than anything else, to be honest," Steve replies, though he doesn't elaborate. Curious, Peter doesn't press, joining him by the fireplace and swiveling his backpack to drop it on his lap. It seems bulkier than normal and Steve asks, "Are you staying the night?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, shifting self-consciously and ducking his head. "Aunt May thought it might be a good idea. I told her about Loki—though, she doesn't really know about Loki—"

"You know," Steve says suddenly, interrupting the boy. Peter looks up, startled, and Steve smiles. "You know that we know."

Peter flushes, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "Oh. Ah—"

"You called him Olson, before," Steve explains. "Natasha talked to you?"

He shifts again, scooting himself backwards into the armchair, shoulders pulled to his ears. "It—kinda … came out."

Steve smiles, sparing the boy's nerves by changing the subject. "So, you're worried about Loki?"

He's curious. The week with Thor and then earlier in the day with Potts and Hogan had awoken within him an interest in Loki. He'd never treated Loki with any more familiarity than he felt a war criminal was due, but he couldn't ignore the affection he seemed to have inspired within such genuinely kind and reasonable people. Steve wants to see the good that Thor seemed so convinced must still lurk somewhere deep beyond the bitterness he'd shrouded himself in—because it's there. It has to be there. Even if Steve has never seen it for himself, the evidence is there in the tears Potts had spilled at his bedside while Thor watched her from afar, bewildered and hopeful.

"Loki did a lot of bad stuff. He's supposed to be a bad guy," Peter says, curling his arms around his backpack as he studies the flickering shadows on the floor. "But the first time I ran into him as Spiderman, he helped me stop Sandman and his new gang. He didn't know who I was and he didn't have to help me, but he did. And then—when Amora attacked the Tower—before that, I was—I was really in a lot of trouble and Loki showed up and he—he saved my life. That guy—Green Goblin—he was way out of my league. I could've …"

Steve frowns. He hadn't heard of this before. Sitting forward, he urges Peter to go on. "What do you mean?" He doesn't want to sound insensitive, but from what he'd come to understand, Loki had been in a hurry to relay the oncoming danger to Natasha and Bruce. So, why ... ?

Peter exhales loudly with the weariness of one who'd been asking himself the same question. "I don't know. He was pretty beat up. Maybe he missed the Tower and ended up running into me—which means he definitely didn't have to waste time saving me, but he did anyway and—man, I just feel like I owe him one. Ms. Stark, Dr. Banner and I—we came out of this practically without a scratch and Loki … It's all 'cause of Loki."

"Well," Steve says, watching the conflicting emotions play out across Peter's face. He'll contemplate an analysis of Loki and Loki's motivations later. Peter's distress, he decides, deserves priority. The boy seemed to have a hard time accepting that, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped seeing Loki as the bad guy he believed him to be. "What do you want to do, then?"

"I wanna be able to say thanks without feeling like an idiot for wanting to be grateful," Peter mutters sardonically, frowning.

"A noble pursuit," Steve laughs. "I'll help. If the words out of his mouth are anything other than 'you're welcome', I'll kick his butt."

Peter grins, immediately mollified by the promise. He scrunches up his nose in a look of playful disgust, however, and says, "Oh yeah—tomorrow. You think we can keep Thor busy and out've Ms. Stark's hair a bit?"

Steve blinks, understanding slowly. "Oh. For—uh—you want to give her some time with—uh—"

Peter snorts, his grin widening and betraying the disgust he's attempting to emulate. It reminds Steve so much of a child's distaste when forced to witness his parents affection that he doesn't know whether to be more surprised by this or by the fact that Peter wanted to allow Natasha time alone with Loki.

Peter shrugs. "I know. It's weird. I don't get it. But—whatever, you know?"

Steve mirrors his smile, feeling awkward to be discussing the couple following the thought that Peter might consider Natasha and Loki as anything resembling parental figures.

"Yeah," Steve mutters, uncomfortable but amused. "We can handle Thor."

She hadn't meant to doze off. She'd spent an entire week in a coma while Extremis rebuilt her body and the last thing she wanted to do was sleep, but her body and mind were still adjusting to the sudden input of information. It shouldn't surprise her that her body would take a few more days to establish a metabolism that would restore balance to her new body. She has to remind herself that it's a miracle the serum had worked in the first place, but she can't help be frustrated that the procedure had not elicited as smooth of an outcome as she'd desired.

Sighing quietly, she stares vacantly at the wall across from her, humming distractedly when the arms around her middle tighten and the mouth pressing to her neck exhales an icy breath. Her left hand has gone numb in the near vice grip she's maintained over Loki's hand, trapped under her chin, and—

With a start, Natasha twists sharply, eliciting a pained grunt when her elbow connects with Loki's injured side.

"Oh shit—sorry!" She stills immediately, wincing guiltily and forcing herself to resist shifting in the arms holding her to a firm chest. Instead, she cranes her head back, reaching back with her free hand to bury her fingers into Loki's hair—greasy and a little gross from several days without washing, but she doesn't care as she clutches the back of neck with all the intensity she can relay with just a single hand. Her chest swells with so much emotion it hurts and she squeezes her eyes shut in gratitude, throat tight and unable to do more than mouth the words, oh my god, though no sound escapes her lips.

Loki exhales slowly against her neck and she feels him tug their joined hands closer to his mouth. His silence is maddening, until he sniffs, sleepily muttering, "… Were you painting my nails?"

Natasha's laughter leaves her in a breathless burst and she wiggles their hands together, wincing as she pulls them apart and her knuckles ache. "Look. We're matching."

"Oh m'God, Natasha," Loki slurs, groaning as he relaxes his arms and rolls to lay on his back. She follows the movement automatically, head still tucked under his arm as she moves onto her back and cranes her.

"You're so adorable when you use human slang," Natasha grins, scooting closer so there could be no space between them.

Loki sniffs again, ignoring her and muttering, "That is a horrid smell."

She laughs again and takes his hand to admire her work, comparing his fingers to her. She hadn't been particular about colors when she'd sent Peter out to purchase the nail polish, but he'd gone with complimentary shades of red and green that were dark enough they seemed almost black without direct lighting.

"Why am I so exhausted? What happened?"

Natasha frowns, lowering his hand and sitting up to look down at him. "You don't remember?"

Loki doesn't seem to have the strength to open his eyes, but his skin slowly shifts from Jotun-blue to creamy Asgardian. Her frown deepens, but before she can offer her disapproval, he mutters, "I don't know what I remember."

"Amora and her goons," Natasha supplies helpfully, smiling when he opens his eyes to watch her.

"Goons?" The slightest of creases forms between his brows in confusion, before smoothing in realization. He snorts. "Right. Thor."

"Right. About Thor—" Awareness slowly returning to him, it takes Loki a moment before her words provide him with the appropriate jolt of alarm. He frowns and she bares her teeth in a grin that lacks an sincerity and mirrors the flare of annoyance that sparks in his eyes. "Yeah. He's here. He's going to want to see you and I'm going to need you not to destroy the place because I'm running low on headquarters and it would be really inconvenient if I had to move back to Malibu."

"Why is Thor here?" Scowling, Loki grits his teeth as he forces himself to try and sit up. Natasha watches him and doesn't try to stop him, though she knows it would probably be better if he didn't try to aggravate his wound—healed though it might appear.

Loki only succeeds in propping his shoulders against the headboard in a slouch that looks nothing short of uncomfortable. Taking pity, Natasha offers her arm and braces her torso as he accepts it and uses her as leverage to slide his back higher against the headboard.

"He—wanted to take you back to Asgard. You were in pretty bad shape," she explains, careful to keep a lid on her emotions. Loki was awake—clearly in no danger of dying. There was absolutely no reason for her to get emotional now. Swallowing, she adds, "I mean, we managed to convince him not to—well, to wait until you were well enough to decide for yourself."

Loki looks up, then—studies her face and sees something that causes him to frown, his annoyance for his brother dissolving to make room for something else. Absently, he reaches for her face and she realizes—with far less distaste than she should feel—that her eyes are probably still raw and possibly a little swollen from crying. She catches his hand with both of hers before he can touch his fingers to her cheek, rolling her eyes because she has absolutely no intention of addressing the complicated nature of their relationship.

Holding his gaze, she exhales quietly, lips pursed and crooked to the side as she tries to bite back the smile threatening to burst. "You're a hot mess. Do you need me to get you anything? Water? Scotch?"

Loki shakes his head, smiling fondly. "I'm fine—"

"Because I might need a scotch," Natasha goes on, releasing his hand and grimacing as her eyes drop to his side. "That was the realest shit I've ever lived through and that's saying something."

Frowning, Loki smooths a palm over his injured side. "It wasn't that bad."

Natasha balks, incredulous. "Wasn't that bad? You freaking intestines were coming out, Loki. I'm definitely going to need a bit more time to recover from that."

Loki sniffs. She can tell he's withholding a smile when he mutters, "Sorry."

Natasha scowls, resisting the urge to smack him for being so purposefully obtuse. "Why are you sorry? You didn't freaking gut yourself."

"Speaking of which," Loki murmurs, pushing off the headboard with a grunt and a wince, half-grin still asking for an elbow to the face. Natasha watches him narrowly and offers no aid as he struggles to keep his torso upright. "I need a shower. I feel disgusting."

"Why are you telling me?" Natasha bites back moodily, annoyed by his total lack of concern regarding one of the most traumatic experiences in Natasha's life.

"You're going to help me," Loki explains matter-of-factly, reaching out to pat her shoulder in wordless request.

She stands and moves away from the bed to give him room, huffing, "If you think I'm ever getting into a shower with you again, you've got another thing coming."

He bows his head as he moves himself carefully to the edge of the bed, but she can still see the treacherous grin across his lips and isn't sold for a second when he looks up at her, grin replaced with a look of earnest concern. "What if I reopen my injury?"

"Then you're fucking screwed, aren't you?"

His grin returns, animating his face and brightening his eyes.

Natasha holds out for about a minute before she's throwing her head back with a groan of frustration and extending her hand to help him stand.

"Fucking ridiculous."

She doesn't lead him to the adjoining bathroom, instead retrieving the collection of bags Pepper had left for him and forcing him to endure the agonizing trip up the staircase and through the main wing. She'd intended to have him move into her old bedroom when he was more fully recovered, but if he was well enough to be an ass he was well enough to march that ass. The guest room he'd been given had been chosen for its convenience, but it lacked much needed privacy, easily accessible and lacking an adequately sized bed.

Despite her annoyance, she allows him to steady his weight against her with an arm over her shoulders, though their disproportionate height difference forces him to slouch more than his injury will comfortably allow.

"You mentioned the Red Skull," Natasha says after a moment, hoping to distract them both from his pain.

"Yes," Loki affirms, voice strained. "He served Thanos long before I ever met them, however—"

"You didn't realize who he was until we started looking into him and HYDRA," Natasha realizes, frowning. "But how the hell did he end up involved with Thanos? He's supposed to be dead."

"We'll have to speak with the Captain, I suppose."

"And Thor?" Natasha asks. "He's seemed fine so far, but do you think it's really safe?"

"Amora has always held a fondness for Thor. I would not trust that she is finished with him, yet," Loki says.

By the time they reach her bedroom, the mood between them is considerably more somber. The adjoining bathroom is nearly equal in size to the bedroom and rather than the shower, Natasha guides him to the grand bath, entirely serious when she'd said that she was still not over the nightmarish incident in the shower. Loki doesn't comment, lowering himself wearily to the bench next to the bath as Natasha wordlessly steps up to help him disrobe. He lets his head tip back, eyes shut, body completely malleable as she works his shirt off him as carefully as possible.

She doesn't get much further past his shirt, however, when he catches her arms and guides them around his neck. Without opening his eyes, he murmurs, "Will you be joining me?"

He looks so worn out and drained that she can't find that usual spark that allows her to instigate their banter. She's never had to care for someone in this way—thinks it shouldn't feel so natural and that her pride should smart at the easy way Loki accepts her aid, as if it were something expected rather than the privilege it actually was.

But she's not in the mood to humor even her own pride—sighs quietly as she studies his face, relaxed and comfortable despite everything.

When she doesn't answer, he opens his eyes and holds her gaze until she can't take the heat that swells in her chest in response and she pulls away. Her arms drop to her sides, heavy, and she nods to his waist, murmuring, "Pants. I'll go start the water."

As she moves to the faucets, she pulls her shirt over her head and flings it to the tile. Adjusting the settings on the digital panel takes only seconds and she rids herself of the rest of her clothes as the bath begins to fill. When she returns to Loki, he hasn't made much progress. She helps him stand, and while he steadies himself with his hands on her shoulders, she helps him out of his pants with little difficulty.

"Is something … different?" Loki asks quietly, startling her. She looks up at him to find him studying her body with interest, brows pulled to a pinch.

Extremis, she thinks, careful not to allow her eyes or expression to betray her. She'd found nothing out of the ordinary when she'd inspected the new skin Extremis had built for her—hadn't thought there might be anything to give her away, but the way Loki was looking at her was making her a little paranoid. She's careful not to panic, lest she accidentally trigger the undersheath with a stray thought.

"Different how?" She humors him, moving away to slip into the bath before her body could give anything else away.

"I don't know," Loki admits, clearly bemused. "Perhaps I'm imagining things."

She says nothing, her back to him as she lets herself sink to a crouch, submerging to her shoulders.

The water is room temperature—not hot enough to distress him and not too cold for her tolerance. She feels it slush around her as Loki joins.

"I miss warm water," she blurts, turning to face him. Seated with his back to the tub wall, Loki studies her like she's a curiosity, brow arched as he waits for her to elaborate. "That's it. That's all I wanted to say. I miss warm water. I miss being warm, in general."

Loki's expression slowly shifts to something unreadable and Natasha decides to take pity on him, moving through the water to join him. She rises to her height, standing between his legs, and is immediately chilled down to her waist.

"Worth it, though," she says with a lazy grin and a half-shrug as she reaches to cradle the back of his neck in her hands. "For a sexy Frost Giant."

Loki holds her gaze for a moment longer, unresponsive.

Then, with a roll of his eyes and a snort, she feels his arms loosely circle the backs of her knees. "You think you're hilarious," he mutters, leaning forward to press an open-mouth kiss to her stomach.

"I am hilarious," Natasha grins, running her hands up to bury her fingers in his hair.

She forms fists in his hair and tugs his head back, presenting his mouth for her to duck down and steal a kiss. He closes his arms around her legs so her knees buckle and she laughs against his grinning mouth, releasing his hair to catch herself on his shoulders as his hands slide across the backs of her thighs to guide her onto his lap.

"Buddy," she grins, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth in a playful expression as she curls her arms around his shoulders. "You are not up for this."

"No?" Loki smirks, leaning forward to nip at the jut of her collarbone, mischievous hands trailing feather-light touches along her thighs.

Natasha chuckles, resting her chin on top of his head as he shifts his focus to her throat; his teeth graze across sensitive flesh, capturing just enough in a light pinch. But for the light tinkling and splashing of water and wet suction of Loki's mouth, there is total silence in the bathroom. Her mind lingers on this, for some reason, as Loki molds his open mouth to the curve of her jaw and he widens the stance of his legs so her own do the same.

She doesn't notice when he's pulled away until his hands cup her face and pull her attention back to him. It's only in the half-second before she tears her eyes away that she realizes she'd been staring at the shower stall built as a second room across from her. Loki pulls her gaze to his, concern and confusion drawing his brows together. She's aware that her smile has vanished, her face too slack and too absent emotion that it startles her.

"I don't think I'm up for this," she mumbles, stunned. Her eyes dart across the tile of the bathroom to the shower and a part of her expects to find a trail of blood to follow. When she looks back to him, she forces a smile; it feels tight across her cheeks as she adds, "Here, at least."

Loki nods, cautiously, still equal parts curious and concerned. She distracts them both by dipping in with a kiss.

His strength returns to him frustratingly slow and it leaves no doubt in his mind that Amora played a part in disrupting his magic's ability to heal him. The more present concern, however, is that Karnilla had seemed just as surprised as he when his mind's projection was ripped from her Realm and suddenly pulled back into the body left abandoned on Earth. It's a distressing thought because, though he is not entirely certain what He is capable of, Loki had been certain that His reach did not extend beyond the dark Realm He claimed as His own.

As Natasha steps quietly out of the bathroom, toweling herself off as she disappears into the bedroom, Loki remains in the water only long enough to push away thoughts of his many enemies so that he can focus on the present—which was Natasha, and whatever she was hiding away from him in that little head of hers. When he leaves the bath at last, he can stand without danger of losing his balance and he counts it as a small victory when he feels whatever dam had been built to limit his access to his magic begin to slowly weaken. He leaves a large pool of water at the base of the bath and doesn't bother with drying, grinning to himself as he follows Natasha into the bedroom.

Amora underestimated him, yet again, if she thought her silly spells could stop him. Loki had not spent two years in preparation against his enemies to be outdone by a petty sorceress with a vendetta against humankind. His time on Earth, with Natasha, had only sharpened his mind. Amora would need to learn to play on another level entirely if she hoped to stand a chance. Her biggest mistake was in underestimating Loki's faith in Natasha's usefulness. He can feel the foreign presence chipping away at the barrier around his magic—a foreign magic beyond his abilities and carefully contained within the pendant Natasha still carried about her neck.

Natasha remains nude, back to him as she tugs on the stiff bedding and tosses away the collection of decorative pillows. Around her neck, Loki sees the slender chain of her pendant gleam as it catches the warm lamplight.

Even in the dim lighting, however, his eyes drop to the small of her back and he feels something still within him when he immediately notices the absence of the speckle of scars that had once been there. That feeling of wrongness he'd only sensed before as something far away returns to him in full force and he searches the canvass of her skin for other anomalies.

Every scar and irregularity is gone. Little things, ones he knows Natasha had never been aware of and Loki had kept as harmless secrets between himself and her flesh—vanished. Even the injuries he knows she must have sustained from Amora's attack and could not have possibly been healed in the week he'd been unconscious with only her human abilities. There is nothing. Tiny pocks of history eradicated without a trace, leaving only smooth skin and a solitary glowing reminder of her past in her chest.

He says nothing as he steps up behind her, hands to her hips as he bows over her shorter height to press his mouth to her temple. His eyes remain open, his mind running possibilities and his ears deaf to her words as she mutters something dismissive and full of sarcasm.

If he were naïve enough to question her, he knows he would receive only half-answers at most. Whether they be truth or lies would be up to him to decide.

Still, he needs somewhere to start. "Where are you on Extremis?"

Natasha cranes her head back to level him with a dubious expression, snorting, "What? I thought you wanted to have sex? Why are we talking about Extremis?" Loki answers with a smile and she watches him, confused, before pulling away and taking a seat on the edge of the bed so she can face him. "The suit is with Maya. If it works, I'll have an awesome new suit—stronger than the Hulkbuster—if it doesn't … " She trails off with a grimace, attention drifting away as she considers the possibility of failure.

"Banner led me to believe it would involve human subjects," Loki says, taking her face between his hands so he can absorb every detail of her expression.

Natasha blinks up at him, frowning. "Eventually. But I'm not sure we're there yet. It's a volatile serum. It destroyed the Mark Thirty-Four when we tried to integrate it with its system."

Loki nods, not entirely convinced. His gaze drops to the reactor in her chest and he reasons that, if Natasha had done something idiotic in his absence, the reactor would no longer have been a necessity.

Wordlessly, without removing his eyes from her reactor, Loki moves in, his mouth finding hers without difficulty as he lowers them both to the mattress. Natasha grins against his lips, sighing, "Finally," and he kisses her with urgency, as if he could pull the truth from her lips.

Her teeth catch his bottom lip, holding it captive defiantly when he tries to pull away and then she releases it with a laugh when he meets her eyes and grins. He feels the treacherous spark in his chest—the current of energy that moves between them on a simple exchange that threatens to carry him away and also swell up within him so that any other thought and desire is banished. So he is left empty—bereft of purpose but the sigh of his name on her lips and his mischief mirrored in her eyes.

As she stretches out over the bed, one arm thrown above her head while her other hand buries itself at the nape of his neck, Loki dips to taste the skin beneath her reactor. Her chest rises on an inhale to meet his lips and tongue and he feels her shiver as his hair tickles over her breasts and brushes patterns across her ribs. His knees dig into the edge of the bed and his toes curl into the carpet beneath his feet as Natasha opens her thighs to make room for his torso and he slides his body down along hers, his mouth shaping itself to the ridge of her hipbone and his palms clutching at the soft curve of her waist.

He kisses his way across her belly and over the gentle slopes of muscles formed beneath soft flesh; tastes the bland perfumes from the baths on her skin as he moves back up to find her open mouth, swallowing her gasp as he jerks her down by the waist so they are aligned. Her arms curl around his shoulders and her back arches to bring their chests flush against the other, her lips sliding between his as he nips and she licks. When he pulls back enough to allow her a chance to breath, he inhales deeply through his nose as he watches her. She's breathless and she laughs with an endless amusement, the apples of her cheeks full and her eyes bright.

"You look—" He whispers, brow furrowed as he shakes his head, confused. " … happy."

Natasha blinks, bemused, and begins to say something, only to blink again and say, "And you look … blue."

Loki pulls away abruptly, startled, removing his hands from her waist to hold them up to his face—finds that they are indeed blue, marred with the darker blue of his Jotun markings. He feels the electricity between them violently snap like a strained cord. Nauseous, he sits back, feeling every muscle in his body tense with silent fury.

He almost doesn't hear Natasha say, "Look, if you can't—"

"I'm fine."

"It's perfectly natural—" His annoyance flares, hot and sharp.

"I'm fine," Loki snaps, tearing his glare away from his hands to hold her stare.

Natasha rolls her eyes, crossing her arms behind her head comfortably as she looks up at him. "Dude. I'm just saying. Be careful—"

His scowl darkens, unforgiving, and he snarls, "I know to be careful in this form. I would not harm you."

Her gaze doesn't falter, perfectly even and unaffected by the vitriol in his words. "Uh. No. I'm talking about you. You've barely started to properly heal. I'm saying, don't hurt yourself. Again. Because playing nurse has never actually been a kink of mine and is really more depressing than sexy, so—" She trails off with a shrug.

"You don't understand," he sneers—but her calm is slowly sapping him of his frustration, soothing out the shame that followed any reminder of what he really was. "You should be disgusted."

"Please," Natasha makes a face, rolling her eyes. "I don't know shit about Frost Giants or Jotunheim beside what you've told me. You can't expect me to hate them like you do when the only thing I know about them is you."

He grits his teeth, annoyed with his instinctive desire to demand she despise the filthy creatures as he did; annoyed that he wants to accept her easy dismissal of his heritage and allow himself the peace that might follow if he could ever relinquish the black hatred stowed deep in his frigid heart for the race of beasts who he'd been raised to despise. Natasha watches him with calculating eyes and too neutral an expression and Loki feels himself slowly relax, breathing evening out in the absence of any reaction to his mood or his appearance. She doesn't attempt to placate him or offer false words of comfort, and the lack of a sympathetic response gives him nothing to lash out against—nothing to reject with harsh words to soothe his jilted pride.

He snorts, scowling at her petulantly, and she responds by arching a brow.

"What do you want to hear, Loki?" She says at last. "You've terrorized thousands. If I was going to have a problem with you, the color of your skin wouldn't even break the top five hundred things on that list."

He feels the fight drain out of him on his next breath—watches her and thinks she's someone he might never comprehend. For all her humanity and all those delicious flaws that rang out at him as something to be devoured, he doesn't understand how her mortal mind is capable of providing him with such a fascinating diversion. He craves her proximity almost more than he craves her touch.

I'll hurt you, he wants to warn her. His mouth hangs open and it sits on the tip of his tongue, held in place by a bitterness not easily healed by warm eyes and a mortal's fleeting affection. Natasha had never been just a distraction. She had been his greatest and most effective weapon. Her affections, hard won and manipulated so that she could never doubt that her decision to be with him had been anything but her own—he had only ever meant for her affections to be a tool. The week apart from the life he had built with her had cleared his mind and helped him remember that she had only ever been a means to an end.

He'd overestimated his own ability to remain detached. The last two years had been the most real thing Loki had ever experienced. In all his decades, across all the Realms, and above any other, Natasha had become something to him Loki didn't even have a word for. She overwhelmed him—remained inside him like a virus, following him across the Realms so he never felt apart from her, even when his skin burned for her touch.

He knows. He knows that in the end, he will always save himself. He will betray her. There is no changing what he has already set in motion. But—

He regrets.

He regrets meeting her. He regrets not meeting her sooner.

Allowing himself the luxury of believing she is something he can have, even after everything is done, is something he doesn't have the strength to do. Anything more than what they have now is too much. Trust is something he will never take for granted again and he can no longer stomach the idea of what he might become if he gives in to his selfish desire to keep her with him. He has never been as powerful as he is now—never been so in control. But all of it had come from the darkness in his heart and without that—without all the anger and all the hate, he doesn't know what he is. He is afraid of what he might become.

Natasha is a temptation. A dangerous one. He can see her essence flooding into the vacancy where his compassion once sat, healing what he is not willing to be healed. He needs his anger and his resentment. Needs them to fuel him against the long list of transgression he must repay.

Which is why he can't need her, as well.

"Five hundred?" He mutters, replaying her words so he doesn't have to think about why Natasha is the biggest mistake he's ever made.

"I rounded up," she says, watching him with eyes too deep, like she might know exactly what's going on inside his head.

He frowns, and it occurs to him that, not only had he overestimated himself, he'd underestimated her. He says, "If you find me so repulsive, then why are you with me?" and wonders just how much Natasha knows.

"I didn't say I found you repulsive. I—" She sighs heavily, bringing her arms out from under her head and over her eyes. Groaning, she mutters, "God. Neither one of us is drunk enough for this conversation."

Natasha had accused him before of spending all his time psycho-analyzing her. Of being blind to himself in his obsession to criticize everyone else. In his arrogance, then, had he been blind to whatever ways Natasha had manipulated him, as well? Would he discover them only when it was too late? Was he so overconfident in his own ability to deceive that he'd dismissed the possibility that Natasha might know exactly the kind of person he was and precisely the way to play him?

"Enough, then" Loki mutters darkly, willing away his thoughts as he lowers himself to her and takes her arms to guide them around his neck. Natasha gasps and he kisses her open mouth to remind himself of the taste; bids himself a silent oath before he can bring himself to move away.

He does not allow himself to linger, ducking his head to press his brow above the reactor as his hands tighten over her biceps and he permits experience to lead as he rocks against her, slow and affectionate. She's almost unbearably hot and he hears her hiss from the cold—but she moves against him and favors him with her breathless sighs and his name, over and over.

Loki sleeps little throughout the night, but somehow he still manages not to notice when Natasha slips out of bed until he wakes the following morning to the door opening and a half-dressed Natasha holding a tray of food. He frowns, sitting up, covers falling to settle around his hips—and his attention falters momentarily when he realizes just how much stronger he feels. The persistent ache in his side is gone and he can feel the tingle of his magic just underneath the surface of his skin.

Pleased, he looks back to Natasha to see her staring at the tray in her hands, utterly confused. The shirt she's wearing is almost two sizes too big and he thinks he recognizes it as one of Banner's button-downs, but decides he doesn't really want to know.

"How unexpectedly … domestic," he says, drawing her attention. "Breakfast in bed?"

"No-no-no," she replies quickly, shaking her head. She glances over her shoulder cautiously as she nudges the door shut with her knee. "I intercepted Thor on his way to the other room. It seems he and Steve have become chummy while you've been napping and they've figured out how to use the kitchen appliances to make—whatever this is supposed to be. This was Thor's attempt. Steve's still working on his."

He chuckles at her look of disgust as her attention turns back to the tray. "That is a disturbing thought," he says, referring to the idea of an alliance between Thor and the Captain, though not really concerned. From what he could remember, Natasha and Rogers had been working to repatch their relationship into something amicable. It meant that, at the very least, Rogers would attempt to give him the benefit of the doubt if Loki's motives ever came into question.

"For you," Natasha laughs as she joins him in the bed and sets the tray on his lap. "Means you'll have to think twice before double-crossing the Avengers."

He snorts. "In order to double-cross them, I'd have to be aligned with them. Which I am not."

Natasha nods, humming distractedly. "Noted. Can I have your PopTart?"

He smacks her hand away from the tray. "No. It is the only edible thing I can see on this platter." Natasha ignores him and reaches for the single rectangular pastry. Deciding she will only continue to pester him, he magnanimously declares, "Very well. We may share it."

Natasha only smirks as he splits the PopTart in half and offers her the smaller share. She takes it without complaint, but asks, "Don't they normally come in a bag of two?"

"Knowing that imbecile—"

"You should be nice. He was bringing you breakfast in bed."

Loki rolls his eyes. "Like a child."

Without a warning, the door swings open just enough to allow a smirking Parker to duck his head through. He takes in the state of the bed and their undress and rolls his eyes, nose crinkling in playful distaste. "You guys sure don't waste time. I'll end up going blind at this rate."

Natasha laughs and Loki leers, "Try knocking. It might do wonders for your vision."

"And if you're desperate, there's bleach," Natasha adds.

"Ha-ha," Parker makes a face, disturbingly at ease. Loki's eyes narrow, suspicious, and Parker says, "Thor's already told everyone you're awake." Impishly, he adds, "Guess Sleeping Beauty only needed the Prince's kiss to be awakened."

"Keep talking, Web-Head," Natasha grins, shaking her head. "And I won't even try to stop him when he goes to rip your head off."

"That's really violent," Parker replies, unconcerned. He nods to the tray, "Put that down. Cap made real breakfast and Ms. Potts expects everyone to join."

"I have breakfast," Natasha replies, wiggling the half-pastry in her hand.

Parker snorts. "What—sharing a PopTart? Hurry up. Get decent. I'll help Thor find this room if you're not down in five."

When he's gone, Natasha balks, "When did he become so impudent?"

"Your influence, I'm sure," Loki mutters, begrudgingly following her lead as she slips out of the bed.

"Well, guess that means I should find you some pants," Natasha mumbles to herself as she moves to rummage through the bags by the door. Absently, she adds, "I hope I don't look like I've been defiling the God of Thunder's little brother … "

Natasha decides on black slacks and matching suit jacket, complete with a vest, tossing them across the room to him before darting off to her closet to decide on something for herself. Loki changes while he listens to her fumble around with hangers and drawers and he tries to summon his rage against his brother in hopes it might distract him from thoughts invoked by the night before.

He would choose Natasha before everything else in the universe, and he's fine with accepting that. But, he also knows that, in the end, when it comes to choosing between himself and Natasha, he'll choose himself. It's been far too many decades of being second best to everyone else for him to fall back into that habit. He has come a long way from the Asgardian Prince he'd once believed himself to be and Thor's presence only reminds him that all he has ever been is a failure in the eyes of the All-Father. Natasha is evidence that Loki was never fit to live under Odin's rule.

Unlike Thor's benevolent new nature, Odin had never shared in his true son's affection for the mortals. They were insects; their lives were fleeting. He could admit that a part of his initial appeal to Natasha had been her mortal nature—knowing that it could only add further insult to injury in the list of his crimes against Odin. But even if things had played out differently—even if there was a chance could ever return to the life he'd once had, oblivious to the truth—Loki could not relinquish what he has built with Natasha for any promise of eternity with an immortal.

It's a distressing thought.

He hopes that, with the time allowed to an immortal, he might learn how to forget her.

"Hey, what do you think?" Natasha emerges from the closet in a gray slim-fitting suit and heels—which almost explains the similar outfit she'd provided him with.

"Lovely," he replies, bemused.

"After breakfast, we need to stop by S.H.I.E.L.D., so I figured we might as well look amazing." She explains, sensing his confusion. She joins him and loops a checkered monochrome scarf around his neck. "Mostly, I just miss seeing you in a suit."

Loki is aware of his thoughts fading to background noise as he focuses on her eyes and sly grin. Her hair is flat, hanging loose and framing her face in the way he likes best and he cups her jaw through the curtain of hair as he dips forward to claim her grin with his lips.

He fears that, with the time allowed to an immortal, he might never learn to forget her.

"Steve!" Natasha exclaims when they enter the kitchen to find the man still stationed in front of the stove. "I am genuinely impressed."

"Didn't think I could figure out how to work a pan?" Rogers calls back without turning his attention away from the pan in question.

Behind him, at the island, Happy is gathering utensils while Pepper sets the expanded table. They both still immediately upon sighting him, but it's Pepper who drops everything to dart across the kitchen and tackle him in a graceless hug. Loki gathers her in his arms instinctively, surprised by her uncharacteristic response, but he says nothing when Natasha quietly slips away to join Rogers and Happy ducks his head in a show of offering his girlfriend some privacy.

When Pepper pulls away, her eyes are wet and her cheeks are splotched in red. Bemused, Loki carefully wipes the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, frowning. "Pepper, I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"Bruce said your injuries weren't healing and—and you wouldn't wake up for a week, Loki, you—" Pepper bites down on her lip before her voice can break and as tears begin to fall anew Loki pulls her back into his arms to allow her time to gather herself again without having to put her distress on display.

Feigning ignorance, Loki overhears Natasha quietly ask Rogers as she sidles closely next to him, "Where's Thor?"

"I think Doctor Banner is keeping him occupied for a bit."

Natasha hums quietly in acknowledgment and glances over her shoulder to Pepper, concern she wouldn't otherwise allow to be so evidently present tightening her expression in an echo of Pepper's grief.

Loki's first inclination is to make a scathing remark to displace the overwhelming misery hanging like a cloud over the room, but unlike with Thor, there is no reason to want to hurt these people for showing him compassion. If anyone had been wronged, it was them, and Loki knows he is the one at fault. It had played well into his plans, but there had been no reason for either Pepper or Happy to forgive his betrayal. That they had, asking for so little in return, was demanding of a reward that Loki was unsuited to give.

Behind him, a clearing throat has Pepper pulling away and Loki turning around.

"Guess not for long," Natasha mutters, like she's answering some unspoken question.

"Thor," Loki greets with a venomous smile, conflicted when Pepper keeps an arm around his waist, pressing herself into his side as if to remind him not to do anything foolish. He remembers Natasha's request that he avoid conflict with the Thunderer and bares his teeth in a facetious grin. "What an unwelcome surprise."

Thor has changed very little, but for a slight difference in armor and longer hair. He hadn't had the opportunity to admire the changes in his brother the last time they'd met and the reminder of the unprovoked attack—regardless of Amora's involvement—sparked a familiar hatred in his heart. Thor's frown and too earnest eyes only make it more difficult not to act on his desire to inflict as much emotional pain as he is capable.

Before he can decide on a course of action, however, Pepper reaches up to pat his cheek—a move which startles Thor and elicits an eye roll from Loki. Sniffling, Pepper lifts herself on the balls of her feet to press a kiss to Loki's cheek in a way that was too reminiscent of dear Freya for Loki to be capable of holding on to his annoyance. He tears his attention away from Thor to scowl down at her and she smiles, blue eyes still glittering with tears.

"Sweetie, I love you, but don't be a dick," Pepper says. "Play nice with your big brother and leave the caveman behavior to Natasha."

Loki smiles back at her, too sweetly for her to be deceived as he brings a hand to cup her cheek affectionately. "Darling, I love you, but there is nothing in all the Realms that could convince me to play nice."

"Try anyway," is all Pepper says, nearly back to her usual self as she moves away instead of properly greeting Thor.

Loki's jaw aches as he forces himself not to give in to the urge to scowl pettily at Thor. He finds Natasha's eyes and she waggles her eyebrows at him, completely unsympathetic.

"Brother," Thor rumbles in an attempt to speak quietly. Loki breathes in sharply through his nose and looks back to him with another sharp smile. "You've healed well."

It's at this moment that Parker chooses to swoop in past Thor's bulky frame, grinning as he proclaims, "Oh, the healing wonders of sleeping with—"

"Parker!" Loki hisses, snaking an arm around the boy's head and slapping a hand over his mouth as he marches him across the room to a wide-eyed Natasha. "One more word and I will end you," Loki snarls into the boy's ear.

Shoving Parker into Natasha—who accepts the boy and curls her fingers into his shoulders with a pained smile—Loki shakes his head and moves to Rogers' other side for a lack of anywhere else to turn his attention to. Rogers looks up to flash him a sympathetic smile, but Loki can see the amusement in his eyes and glares.

"How is it that my private affairs are made open for anyone to mock?" Loki mutters grudgingly, flicking a disgruntled look to the combination of eggs, potatoes and vegetables sizzling in the pan.

Rogers chuckles and leans into Loki's space conspiratorially. "Because you guys don't do subtlety well."

"I will hurt you," Loki hears Natasha threaten Parker, hooking an arm around his shoulder to steer him into a corner furthest away from anyone else.

Parker throws Rogers a panicked look. "Cap!"

"Don't look at me, Pete," Rogers shrugs, stepping away from the stove to one of the cupboards. "You brought this on yourself."

"A wise decision, Captain," Loki nods approvingly, pinning Parker with his glare.

"Loki—be cool, man! I wasn't actually gunna say anything," Parker argues, slipping away from Natasha with ease. Natasha huffs, rolling her eyes and abandoning the task to join Pepper. Parker rejoins Loki with a pout, jabbing a brazen finger to his chest. "And—anyway—I should be mad at you. You're the one who blabbed to everyone about—"

"Peter!" Rogers scolds, looking to Parker in alarm.

"Dear God," Natasha groans from where she's watching Pepper arrange the table. "Stop talking, you donut."

Loki smiles down at the boy, smug. "I spoke only with Natasha. What she did with that information afterwards was—"

"Wait," Pepper calls out, predictably curious. Loki meets her look and his smile widens. "What are you talking about, Loki?"

"About Peter's secret—"

"Loki!" Natasha and Rogers snap, leveling him with matching looks of disapproval. Parker looks like he's going to be sick.

"—rendezvous with a Miss Stacey," Loki finishes, barely containing his laughter.

Parker gapes unceremoniously. "Oh my gosh—how do you even know that? You've been in like a coma for a week!"

Loki smirks.

Natasha snorts. "Aww. Itsy-Bitsy Parker is all grown up."

"Ignore them, Pete," Banner says as he enters, taking a moment to cast Thor a curious look where the Asgardian continues to stand thuggishly just outside the door, clearly out of his element. "You'll only encourage them."

Natasha confirms this by laughing, earning herself an elbow to the side by Pepper.

"Thor, buddy," Happy calls out, taking pity. "Take a seat. Breakfast will be ready in'na bit."

Thor starts, blinking slowly like he's warding off a sleeping spell. Nodding mutely, he moves to the breakfast table but doesn't take a seat. Natasha makes a show of pulling out a chair for him and bowing as she declares, "Your Highness."

Thor stares at her, confused by her humor.

Loki feels his mood start to sour watching Natasha and Happy interact with Thor and he turns back to watch over Rogers' concoction. He blinks when he finds the fragrant smell of coffee being thrust under his nose and frowns down at the mug being held out to him by none other than Rogers.

"Salvaged this," Rogers explains with a grin when Loki finally accepts the proffered mug.

The mug looked like it is barely holding itself together. It's a wonder the coffee isn't leaking out through the numerous cracks decorating the porcelain. As he inspects it, Loki is startled to realize he's holding the infamous Stark Spangled Banner mug. He grins and looks up to find Rogers wearing a matching expression.

"It's a little chipped," Rogers shrugs self-consciously, eyes pointedly on the mug rather than Loki's face.

Loki waves a hand over the cup to conceal the imperfections with an illusion, not quite ready to try anything more lasting.

"Not bad," Rogers says, nodding in approval when Loki returns him the mug.

From the table, Natasha and Parker call out:

"Show off."

End Notes: Is it November 8 yet? Everyone else has seen Thor 2 and I'm just really freaking frustrated about this! GUHHH.