AN: Listen to anything by Olafur Arnalds, particularly ...And They Have Escaped the Weight of Darkness or Dyad 1909, for a soundtrack to this chapter.

Remembrance of Things Past

Part Thirty-Seven: The Difference Between Us

The last of the moonlight creeps through the window, the dawn awaits, but still Natasha has not slept. She sits on the couch in her quarters, the items from her display case cast across the table before her: the feather from Loki, the music from Winter, the gun from Clint, the doll from Phil, and the necklace she acquired from Drakov's daughter. Lifting the glass in her hand, she finishes the last of the vodka, her eyes first on the feather and then on the music before returning to the feather and then again to the music.

I asked him why he didn't kill you in St. Petersburg.

He said the same thing I did.

How will Loki react? How will he react now that Winter is here because Natasha knows, despite her advice, that Maria will not send Winter away, not when the possibility exists that he spoke the truth about wanting to help. And though Winter wished to speak to Sif first, Natasha knows, too, that he will want to speak with her. Eventually. How could he not? If he desires to help, he'll want to know how she atoned, how she rebuilt her life here after the Red Room, and if he desires to divide, he'll need her, too, Natasha the knife to wield against Loki, she the killer of Anna and Loki the antagonist to Doom.

What lengths would a man such as he go to in order to rescue a woman such as you?

Would Winter play upon Loki's love for her by threatening her, by reinforcing Doom's intent to kill her, or would he instead reveal his time with her at the Academy, stoking the jealousy so primal, so instinctive to Loki?

Have you ever danced with him?

And you slept with him?

Did you love him?

Natasha leans over and grabs one of the liquor bottles that she and Clint stole from Tony. Scotch by the look of the label. Opening the bottle, she pours the liquor then sets the bottle on the table by the necklace. As she leans back, the air crackles, green light flashes, and Loki arrives, the first she has seen of him since his confrontation with Clint. He carries the gold mirror from his flat in India; she sees other objects on the glass, but cannot discern them in the dimness of the room.

Loki stills as he sees her; his eyes cut to the bed, the sheets and blankets undisturbed, then to the scotch in her hand. She detects evaluation, assessment. Crouching, he sets the mirror on the floor beside him and then he looks at her and says, "What happened? Is it Barton?"

Natasha shakes her head, unable to speak at first, the hint of concern for Clint twisting the truth about Winter, tangling the words in her throat. She swallows some of the scotch and licks her lips. She knows she has to tell him. She can't not. Loki deserves to know and to know from her. Only, telling him sets the board in motion, and for this game Natasha cannot foresee the ending, both players unpredictable, especially with her.

"Natasha—"

"It's Winter," she says. "He's here."

Loki shows his surprise in the slight pause as he rises. He glances at the table, at the music, and his eyes linger there as he says, "How?"

Natasha does not respond. After a moment, Loki again looks at her, but he does not move toward her. He stays where he stands, and she feels the dread slither in, the first tendrils swirling cool in her gut. "He turned himself in," she says, watching him as he watches her. "He said he wanted to cooperate. Help us with Doom."

"Has he?"

The questions are those that she asked Maria only hours before, and Natasha would smirk at the similarity in their approaches, but his distance discomforts her, a sign, she fears, of his doubt. He had asked in St. Petersburg if she loved Winter, and Natasha told him the truth, how she could not, how love had not existed in the Red Room, not for her. And she thought Loki believed her. Why else had he proclaimed his love for her? Why would he do this if he doubted?

Yet, if he believed, why would he have left the next day, especially when she asked him to stay?

"Natasha?"

Natasha blinks. She focuses again on Loki; he stares at her, his brows drawn together, and she remembers his question. "No," she says. "He hasn't. He said he'd only talk to one person."

Loki narrows his eyes, and the dread deepens within her. "Who?"

Tell me.

He waits, yet Natasha does not answer. She raises her glass and drinks the scotch, watching him over the edge as she tries to discern his thoughts, but they remain a mystery to her, and she does not know if Loki shrouds them from her deliberately or if she can no longer perceive them, the chaos of the past few days lingering, clouding still.

The silence persists. Natasha lowers the glass. Loki raises a brow. They stare at each other, at an impasse, and then Natasha prepares to ask, breathing in, because she must know. Always, with Loki, she must know.

"If he asked for me, what would you do?"

"Has he asked for you?"

Now Natasha raises a brow. "You answer my question, I answer yours."

Loki smirks at that, and Natasha would, too, this exchange so reflective of them, the dangerous process of revelation, mining for truth in a landscape littered by mendacity and scarred by deceit, but she does not, the consequences flickering in the distance troublesome, Winter with the ability to finish what Anna begun, stripping Natasha of what she had fought so hard to recover.

I love you. And I know you love me.

Loki must see her concern for his smirk fades, and Natasha cannot breathe as he looks at her, as she sees once more the constrained turbulence in his eyes, as she feels it in herself. "What do you think I would do?" he asks.

She hesitates, his tone betraying the simplicity of the question, transforming the query into one of trust, of faith. Natasha shakes her head, wishing reassurance lay within her, but it does not, not for Loki, not about Winter, not now. "I don't know," she says, her hand tightening on the glass.

"But you always know."

I don't have to presume. I know.

She did, she had, since Switzerland she knew, though she did not believe, not until Loki came for her in Latveria, not until he saved her, but her certainty disintegrated with Odin, the fallout of his sacrifice yet to resolve. Standing now, she says, "I don't. Not now. You told me Winter loved me and then you told me you loved me, but you haven't kissed me since Omsk, and you left when I asked you to stay. And now Winter's here, and the last time we spoke about him you told me I should pay him your compliments because he taught me well. So, no, I don't know how you would react. Not about him. Not about this."

As she speaks, Loki looks away. He tenses, and she knows that he wants to pace, to burn away the feeling growing within him, stifling him, guilt perhaps, or maybe just recognition, but he stays still. A second passes. Loki glances at the feather and then at the music before he looks at her. Natasha waits, and then he says, slowly, carefully, "What I would do would depend on why he's here, whether he's here to help or if he's here as part of a larger plan."

"Say he's here to help."

"That would depend as well."

"On what?" she asks, though she already knows.

Loki looks at her. "On you."

Two words spoken, but four implied: Do you love him? Do you love him still? Do you love him now? Natasha breathes in, trying to stem the anger that begins to brew within her. Even after she crossed the stars and challenged a god and almost died to acquire the Casket to prove to Loki that she loves him, to atone for her lie, he still doubts. He doubts that she loves him.

As if he knows, he moves closer to her, but he stops at the look in her eyes, at the warning. "I do not doubt you love me," he says, striving, as she, for balance. "I doubt you never loved him."

"I told you—"

"You said you could not love him at the Academy, not that you could not love him at all. If he is here, then you could."

Natasha tries to react, she tries to think, she tries to breathe following this, but she can't. She can only stare at Loki as disbelief stokes the fire within her. "Do you think I would do that? After everything?" she asks, anger chipping at the words, each syllable like flint. "Do you think I would suddenly decide to start loving Winter now simply because he's here?"

Loki shakes his head. "I did not say that you would. I said that you could, and if we are anything, Natasha, we are proof that you don't choose who you love."

Couldn't you have chosen Steve or Bruce… somebody else but him?

I don't think it's a choice.

And it wasn't. Natasha cannot deny his claim. She knows the truth in the statement; she felt it before when she had tried to deny her regard for him, when Loki had looked at her as they danced in Venice, when he had lain beside her in the hotel in Switzerland. She knows that, if she could have chosen whom to love, she would have chosen Clint, her trust in him absolute. But choice played no part in who she loved, only whether she loved at all.

"You're right," she says now. "You don't choose. But you have to trust to love, and Winter… He…" Natasha shakes her head, words failing her, as always, in times of truth. She looks at the feather, crushed by the bullet from Winter and stained with her blood, the bullet the next step in Anna's retribution, in her endless quest to break Natasha for daring to be more, for daring to be a person and not simply a killer, to be Natasha as well as the Widow.

"I thought you understood," she says, staring down at the feather. "You met Anna. You know. I told you about the Academy. How could I trust anyone there?"

Loki hesitates, but he does not relent. "You said he was different."

"He was," Natasha says, looking at him. "The others I understood. They were like Anna. But Winter…" She searches, but again, the words do not come. How to explain to him the lure and repulsion of the ambiguity that she felt for Winter? She looks at the music. "Sometimes I thought I could trust him. Mostly when he played. But I never knew if it was real or if it was a test. Because they had those. A girl, Maria, she fell in love with one of the weapons instructors, and the man reported her. She killed herself the next day. And Winter, sometimes he said things, comments about the Academy that made me wonder, positive things, loyal…"

Natasha shrugs and looks away. She glances at the music. Winter composed the piece for her, a sonata, while on a mission to Rio. She found the composition scribbled on a scroll beneath the loose board behind her door when he had returned, but another three months passed before the Academy sent her on a mission with him and she could hear him play the piece for her in person. When he did, Natasha believed that he loved her, and when he did, she wanted to love him, but then he killed with a ruthlessness that chilled even her and he spoke of the munificence of the Academy, toward him and toward her, and the contradiction defied clarity.

"The pieces," she says, and she hears the ache in her voice, the fear and desire and the desperate need to survive in a young girl born to die and bred to kill, "they didn't fit. There was always something. Something missing… something off… so I couldn't." Natasha feels Loki watching her; she feels the intensity of his gaze, aware of every gesture, each pause, every breath heavy with significance. Glancing at him, she says, "I know why they never fit now. But I still can't. I don't know how much of him is Steve's friend or how much of him is Winter, and I don't know how much of Winter is the Academy and how much of him is like me, and if I don't know, if I can't trust him, then how can I… how could I…?"

Natasha stops, closes her eyes. Her throat constricts and she swallows, she tries to breathe, but she can't. She clenches her hands and tries to breathe, but she can't. She hears Loki move, and she opens her eyes to find him turned from her, standing now beside the bed. Natasha watches as his fingertips trace a seam in the blanket. Shadows conceal his face. She moves toward him, but stops when he says, his voice low, "But he intrigues you."

You always had an eye for the striking ones.

The man with the metal arm. The beast with the golden horns.

The men with the cool blue eyes.

He turns to her now. "Doesn't he?"

I remember him looking at me. He didn't look proud like so many of the others.

He looked sad.

"Tell me," Loki says, and she hears the snap of anger in the phrase, in the demand, their refrain.

"Why?" she asks, rising to meet his ire. "So you can kill him? Or so you have a reason to run again?"

Natasha sees the nerve she struck; Loki smiles, the sharp one, as jagged as smashed glass. At the church in Switzerland they fought: they destroyed their pretense, smashing through their acts of self to find each other in the end. In Russia and Latveria they fought: they wielded words, honed as knives, Loki to wound and Natasha to persuade, but she lost. They lost. Would they lose now, so quickly after they found each other? Natasha breathes in. She strives for control, for balance, so tenuous now, the days pressing upon her, the lack of sleep and the alcohol, the anxiety, Anna and Winter, Clint and Steve, Odin and Fury, and Loki, broken, selfish, desperate, proud, defiant, sly and startling Loki.

Natasha breathes in again and takes a step toward him. "I—"

"'You've changed,'" he says, shaking his head. "'You can be more.'" He laughs at that, but she sees the sheen of tears in his eyes as he throws her words at her, as he stands before Natasha as he stood in St. Petersburg, wounded and willing to wound. She feels the conversation slip away; it spins beyond her grasp as it always has, from the first moment Loki appeared in her apartment, the night he believed he would die. His eyes cut to her and cut into her, the anger in them fresh from old pain. "I thought you would have learned by now, Agent Romanov, not to tell such lies."

Change. That's the cruelest lie you've told.

And Natasha cannot stop herself, she cannot walk away. She holds his gaze, the rage within her, the passion that he stirs, burning. "And what have you done to prove otherwise?" she asks. "You talked to Clint, but that was because he found you, right? Aside from that, you've run. You ran after Paris. You ran from me yesterday."

"I ran from Thor, not—"

"—and now, now you speak to me about belief, how I don't believe in you. But what belief have you shown in me, doubting me still about Winter?"

"What cause have you given me?" he asks, moving toward her. "Barton agitated you, but never this way." He gestures to the items on the table, to the bottle, to the glass and the liquor.

"This wasn't about Winter," she says. "This was about you and—"

"Then why had you been crying when you came to the cage?"

Natasha stops, pulled short by the question, but Loki presses on, he presses forward, coming toward her now as he says, his voice again the low thrum from the Carrier, "You would not have cried about Fury. Death does not speak to you in such terms. And you would not do so for the others, your team. You care for them, but distantly. You had no cause to experience such distress for me. Not then. So this leaves Barton. Or Winter."

Have you ever danced with him?

And you slept with him?

"Tell me you hadn't spoken to the Captain as he desired for you to do," Loki says. He stares at her; the light from the dawn catches his eyes, the blue like the sea in a storm. "Tell me you didn't remember him, your time with him. Tell me you didn't cry for him."

Did you love him?

Natasha is silent.

"Tell me."

Pay him his compliments when he comes for you.

He taught you well.

"Tell me, Natasha."

"No."

Natasha expects the word to ring through the room, to reverberate in the corners and the shadows given the turmoil within her, the shackles of control maintaining only the slimmest of holds upon her emotions, but the word settles between she and Loki calm, centered, and balanced. Loki stills at her refusal and his eyes narrow. She shakes her head and eases back as she says, "I said what I'm going to say. I've told you, twice, what he is to me. I shouldn't have to anymore. I won't."

Turning now, she finds the dawn broken, the sunlight bleeding into the sea and the sky, the sky aching from the strain of a new day. But is it new? She thought she had reached Loki in Paris, she thought they would abandon the past, abandon the lies, Loki Odinson and Natasha Romanov, and become simply Loki and Natasha, but the past still torments. Would it always?

"Natasha—"

"Are you looking for a reason to destroy this?" she asks, looking back at him.

Shock flits across his face, then his expression sets. "I look for truth," he says. "You—"

"I gave you truth, which you don't seem to want to hear. Why is that?" Loki does not respond. Natasha turns and faces him once more. "Do you want me to love Winter?" she asks quietly.

"No."

"But you believe that I do?"

Loki shakes his head, and Natasha feels frustration ignite again within her. He does not want her to love Winter, he does not believe that she does, Loki believes that she loves him, but still he pushes, still they fight. "Then what—" she asks.

"I believe that you will," he says.

"I said—"

"I know what you said," he snaps, moving toward her and then away, the pressure within him pushed to capacity. "I know." Loki shakes his head and finally succumbs to the need to pace; Natasha watches as he stalks the confines of the room, as he glances at the mirror. In the morning light, she sees on the surface the sword made of glass from Asgard, a small wood box, a crystal bowl, and a silver knife, similar to the one that he conjured for her in Omsk. She wants to ask about the objects, but Loki looks at her again, and she waits. He looks at her, and she waits, and the silence builds, it thickens, it presses against her, slides heavy and slow into her lungs, and she draws in breath as he does too, and she watches as he releases it, as Loki grimaces and then says, "I ran after Paris. I ran even though you asked me to stay. And now I fight with you, and I know I should not. You deserve no doubt. About Winter, you have only ever been honest with me. But I…"

Loki stops. He turns away and grits his teeth; the tension transforms his body into a plucked string. Natasha moves toward him, but she does not touch him. Would they shatter if she did? "So why?"

"Because this is who I am," he says, turning now, the words bursting from him as he closes the distance between them. "This is what I do."

Don't do this.

But this is what I do. This is who I am.

Or is our first encounter such as distant memory for you?

"You said I can be more," he says now, tears again in his eyes. "Frigga says the same. But I fight with you and I fought with Frigga and I fought with Thor, and I don't want to, but I do and I feel that I always shall. There is no peace inside me, only guilt that burns, and you and Frigga say to try, but when I do, this occurs—"

"No. When you try, what happened with Clint occurs."

"What—"

"You have no idea, do you, what you've done for him?" Natasha doesn't wait for a response, the look on his face clear enough. "You might not feel peace now, but he does, and it's because you stayed when he found you. Even when he said what he said to you, and I know what Clint said because he told me, you tried to help him. And you did. I don't know why you can't see that."

Loki looks away. He glances down at the mirror, his eyes troubled, and Natasha wonders again why he has it, what occurred between his departure from the cage and his arrival now. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then smirks at his hesitation. A moment passes, and his eyes cut to the table, to the feather, as he says, "Faith in one's self does not come easy, not for someone such as I, not for something such as this."

He meets her eyes.

You are worth saving. Even if you don't believe it, I do.

Why?

"Is this why you haven't kissed me yet?" she asks. "Doubt?"

Loki shakes his head. "I hate this ship, yet I attempted— I intended— to stay. So I waited."

He shrugs now, looking away, and for the first time since Natasha followed Maria to Command and saw Winter in the cage, she feels hope. "So let's go someplace else," she says.

So we'll go someplace else.

Loki looks back at her, and when he stares, his gaze so intent, all the word, all of time focused into this moment, this space between them, she cannot breathe.

You did hear the part about bed rest, right?

"I've heard you're good with illusions," she continues, her tone light despite the precipice upon which she stands, the gossamer glimmer of hope. "We might have to stay here, but that doesn't mean we have to be here."

I do happen to be quite skilled with illusions, though, so while you may remain in bed, you need not remain in this room.

They stare at each other. For a moment, Loki is silent, and then his hand touches hers, a slight graze of his thumb against her fingertips, but enough to echo up her arm and along her spine.

"Where?" he asks.

Anywhere I've been.

Perhaps they can change. Perhaps he can believe in her, in him. Perhaps he can believe in them. Perhaps Winter will not succeed where Anna barely failed.

At that, Natasha smiles.

Surprise me.

"Surprise me."

He does not ask her to close her eyes this time. Instead, Loki closes his, and she watches as the room shimmers and the light bends, as her quarters fade, as the dawn darkens into night beyond the window, and the sea and sky retain the shape of mountains. Natasha blinks, and their hotel room in Switzerland resolves around her. She turns and finds her cabernet dress, shredded at the hem and bloodied, she finds the bottle of bourbon they shared before confronting each other at the church, the desk at which he sat, contemplating the disappearance of Thor.

Loki opens his eyes, and she knows he chose this for a reason besides the physical, for sentiment rather than for sex. She stares down at the dress. "Why?"

He does not hesitate. "Because it was here I first desired to kiss you."

Isn't it funny?

"You showered," he says. "I sat in the chair waiting for you, remembering the conflict in Venice, how I fell, foolish in my estimation of Doom. I remembered how you came to my aid. You cast yourself between us, with no regard for your safety, and I thought, at first, you did so because you would be sure to perish on your own, Doom formidable with magic. But at that moment, you opened the door and I looked at you, and I realized that you came to my aid because that is who you are, someone who possesses courage beyond the most daring of gods and compassion to care even for me."

Isn't it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?

He looks at her, the question of when in his eyes, and again Natasha smiles. She can't not.

"Surprise me."

She remembers the moment before he showed her the stars, the sunlight shining upon his face, her relief at both of them surviving the torture and conflict with Doom. She wanted to touch him then, but she resisted. Now, she does. She turns her hand and closes her fingers around his palm. Loki lifts his other hand; she feels cool fingertips trace the line of her brow. His thumb hovers over the rune; it catches in the corner of her mouth. Throughout the exploration, he watches her, his gaze does not waver, and Natasha feels open, she feels vulnerable, but she feels the intimacy as a balm, not as a trial to be endured.

Loki leans in, but he does not close his eyes and neither does Natasha. Instead, she waits. The kiss must be his, the final reconciliation from their dissolution in Russia. His gaze drops to her mouth, and she waits. Loki looks back at her, but Natasha knows this is not hesitation, she knows this is not doubt. This is anticipation, this is the swell of the music, and this, she knows, will not be rushed.

Sometimes I think this is still a dream. You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely. How could this be real?

Because it is.

And it is. Her eyes fall shut as Loki kisses her, and Natasha knows that this is real. They had been lies and they had lied, but now they find the truth of themselves in each other, the sentiment that they each had shunned, and Natasha knows that, when she wakes the next morning, Loki will be there and so will she because they may not have chosen to fall in love, but they choose now to be in love, despite the past and because of the future.

I love you. And I know you love me.

The world beyond her door waits for them, Steve and Winter, Clint and Thor, Doom waits for them, but the world will wait. This moment belongs to them, and they will not be rushed.

AN: Feedback is wonderful and very much appreciated. I angsted over this chapter, and I hope it worked.