Cassandra shifted in the booth, index finger and thumb pinching the top of her straw as she slowly swirled the ice around in the glass in front of her. An elbow bracing against the tabletop, the other arm folded along the edge, she leaned into the table with a slight hunch. The last time she sat in this exact booth at the back of Gordy's Diner, she was barely fifteen. Moving into a mansion full of strange people after the death of her mother was a big adjustment for a five-year-old. She was depressed and felt isolated without her brothers.

So, Scott thought it might be a good idea to get out of the house for a while. He took her there, to Gordy's, and they sat in that booth in the back eating ice cream. It became a semi-weekly occurrence. Something they could do, just the two of them, to help bond. Although that didn't stop her from bonding more closely with Jean as she aged, it did create a sense of comfort and safety within their relationship that helped her feel a little less alone.

He'd felt like the older brother she'd been forced to live without. The last time they'd gone to the diner was just before Jean died. After that, Scott didn't really go anywhere outside the school. Cassandra stared at the ice as it swirled in her glass, giving herself an excuse not to make eye contact with Scott across the booth. It was his idea to come to the diner once again. This time, it seemed like an easy way to keep their dinner plans without causing more tension and stress being around the others at the mansion.

They could speak freely about whatever they wished and Charles couldn't input his two cents. She wouldn't have to see him or Storm or any member of the X-Men she didn't agree to have dinner with. Finally, after a long beat of silence at their table, Scott cleared his throat. "So, how'd you become a florist?" he asked, for lack of a better ice-breaker. Though, he was genuinely curious. He wanted to know about her new life, her interests, the things she'd accomplished since leaving.

Cassandra inhaled a breath, sitting up a bit in her seat. "It was by accident, actually. The owner of the shop I worked at went to my laundromat."

"Do you think you'll look for another florist job?"

"Um...I'm not sure," she gave a small shake of her head, stealing a quick glance through the window to her left. "I don't know where exactly I'll be going after this."

It was then the waitress returned to their booth, notepad in hand and a warm smile on her lips that ghosted her eyes. She looked genuinely happy. A pang of envy struck Cassandra's chest, forcing her to swallow before yanking up the corners of her own mouth, plastering on a polite smile in acknowledgement. "Are you two ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?" the waitress asked, all but in singsong.

Scott's eyes flitted to Cassandra, and Cassandra gave a shrug. "We'll order now," Scott decided, with a charming smile directed at the waitress. It was hard for Cassandra not to roll her eyes. It was inevitable that he would be open to flirting with other women eventually, and she truly wanted him to move on enough to find that kind of happiness again, but Scott and Jean had once been like the parents she wished she'd had. The idea of him charming up someone new felt like a betrayal to witness.

But, after they ordered, the waitress skirted away to the front counter and Cassandra sat back in her side of the booth. "Still got it, huh?" she mused, a bitter taste on her tongue. Scott's eyes moved to Cassandra and a small, bubbling laugh escaped him as her words settled in. Though it wasn't his intention to flirt, his cheeks dusted a vague pink at the insinuation, and he shook his head.

"No, no—that's not what was happening," he replied. "Trust me, if I wanted her number, I would have gotten it."

Cassandra's eyes narrowed in jest. "Bold words coming from a guy that hasn't asked in over a decade. Do you even remember how?"

Scott's expression deadpanned and she couldn't help but chuckle, an odd but surprisingly welcome involuntary sound. "I don't see you making any moves," he pointed out, lightheartedly challenging.

"Last time I made 'moves', the guy turned out to be some comic book villain trying to destroy New York," she tilted her head in a humored expression. "Can you really blame me for staying out of the game?"

Scott's lips pulled tight in an expression only describable as oops. He realized then what he had said was in poor taste, all things considered. Though, she was being fairly jovial about the topic, which was surprising as it was. In a situation like this, he expected hostility, visible offense. But she was joking right along with him. He wondered, briefly, if it could be her attempt at accepting the olive branch. Maybe she was just genuinely trying to interact with him positively?

Or, perhaps she was simply giving him the benefit of the doubt, assuming he truly didn't think much into the comment before speaking it? Regardless, he felt a pang of guilt. "Shit, Cass, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring that up."

Cassandra shook her head, waving it away with another glance down at her drink's ice. "It's fine. It sucks but we both made choices, y'know? At least he's allegedly facing some kind of consequence on Asgard," she said.

"How do you think that works, anyway? Do they have a jury? A justice system?"

"I'm pretty sure it's just whatever the king decides. Don't know if I trust his judgement, all things considered, but it's all they've got I guess."

"Sounds like a dictator," Scott pointed out, before taking a drink from his glass. Cassandra nodded in agreement, sinking deep into thought, a trail that wound all the way back to her conversations with Loki at the apartment. Some from months ago, some from over a year—but they all spoke volumes about Asgard's leadership. Of course, they were all words from a man that turned out to be a pathological liar.

So, what could she prove? What could she trust? After all, his words were the only ones she had regarding what life was like in that realm. The soft clinking of ice against glass as Scott set his drink back down on the table between them tugged her from thought, but it lingered at the back of her mind like rotten fruit lost in the mess of a dirty room. It was there—she could smell it, taste it—but it was hidden somewhere she couldn't quite see.

Her thoughts concerning Loki were all so hard to fully detach from. It was difficult to sleep now. She'd toss and turn as the unanswered questions and doubts plaguing her got louder and louder, rising in volume until it was all she could hear, and she was forced to get up. To start her day at an unusually early hour despite the protest of her sore muscles and aching bones. She dragged through the majority of the day with exhaustion, but faced the same wrestle to sleep the following night.

Sometimes she slept. Little bits and pieces of rest here and there, but they weren't very substantial. It showed now, in the creases by the bridge of her nose, accompanying a dusting of purple across the bags forming below her eyes. Scott couldn't help noticing, the color made worse by the tint of his glasses. "How are your brothers?" he asked, changing the topic of conversation for both their sakes.

"Fine, last I heard. Barney's back at work already. Clint's taking some time off," she absentmindedly reached for her straw and began to slowly stir the contents of the glass once again. "They're still not talking to each other, but at least I'm back to being the middleman so there's some communication."

"Do you think you'll stay with one of them when you leave? At least, for a while?" Scott asked. He tried to mask the disappointment in his chest with a casually curious tone, but she could hear it. It was in the way the question of it all wobbled, teetering enough to be noticed, as it struggled to stay on the curious side.

Cassandra lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Probably. I don't want to impose on either of them, but I don't have many options."

Scott nodded as he listened. It was understandable, her apprehension toward asking for help. After all, he'd struggled with the same thing, quite publicly. A swollen pride may just be the most common ailment in the whole world. Asking for help would seem weak, so suffering was glamorous in comparison—because nothing could be worse than bare humanity.

However, there was another factor to Cassandra's dilemma. She could feel their half-relation in the back of her throat and it tasted like bile on her tongue. The idea of living with either of them—even if just for a short while—felt traitorous with the secret she still kept. But how could she ever break that news? How could she when her anxiety constantly convinced her there was a chance of her deepest fear being realized? She could lose not one, but both of them, and that was far too great a risk.

Though, could she stomach living in their homes while harboring such important information? Cassandra stabbed her straw into an ice cube and forced the frozen water to the bottom of the glass, pinning it there. It fought to rise back up so she adjusted every few seconds to keep it against the bottom. Then, the waitress returned with their order. She was forced to relinquish the ice in order to move the glass out of the way as the woman put two plates of food on the table.

"Here you are," the waitress retained her upbeat attitude from before. "If you need anything else, you just let me know, alright?"

"Thank you," Scott gave a nod and a polite smile.

Cassandra mumbled a quick 'thank you' as the waitress turned to leave, swiftly heading toward another table. The diner didn't seem all that busy, but it was probably the busiest it'd been in a while—after all, it was the dinner rush. "I know Barney lives in Virginia, but where's Clint holding out these days?" Scott inquired, as he reached for his glass. Cassandra's eyes flicked up from her plate to Scott's face in a quick dart of subtle panic. "I can't imagine he's home much, working for S.H.I.E.L.D. and all that."

"Um, he owns a place back home, actually—but, yeah, he doesn't get much down time," she skirted around the truth, making a mental note of the information to tell Clint later. With as easy it was for Cassandra to detect lies, it would be a natural progression for her to be good at telling them herself. However, that was not the case, more often than not. Her stories were always clever and unsuspecting but her eyes gave it all away far too often.

Although, Scott didn't notice either way, his eyes downcast as he wrestled with the half empty ketchup bottle from the table, and Cassandra breathed an inward sigh of relief.


She had packed almost everything already. There wasn't much to begin with anyway. But she'd been interrupted earlier and didn't have a chance to finish until after dinner with Scott. So, there she stood by the bed at near midnight, folding up the last of her sweaters and placing them into her duffel bag.

It was perched on the bed where it had been before. All her possessions fit neatly inside, and it was equal parts satisfying and sobering. Though, she didn't have to wonder how she'd gotten to this point. If it weren't for the damage done to the city, she would have at least a small apartment full of things. Things she'd worked hard to possess. But she would simply have to come to terms with the fact that starting over was her only option.

As her fingers pulled at the semi-jammed zipper of the duffel's top flap, she felt it—a warm numbness at the base of her skull. Every muscle tensed, freezing in place as though she'd been put on pause, and her eyes narrowed bitterly. "What the fuck do you want?" she questioned aloud.

I'm genuinely sorry for this intrusion, and the late hour. I don't wish to stop you from leaving. But there's something you need to know before you do.

After the day they'd had, Charles' voice in her head was downright obnoxious, tainting her previously neutral mood. "Then spit it out," she demanded, her annoyance and frustration causing impatience.

It is better we talk face to face. Come to my office on your way out. I'll explain it all then.

Of course Charles knew she planned on leaving tonight. Considering he was currently in her head, it wasn't surprising, but it was enraging none of the less. Though, before she could respond, the numbness dissolved suddenly—and the room was overly silent. Cassandra let out an involuntary huff. It was just like him to treat her poorly and then start making demands. Normally, something like this on its own would've intrigued her enough to agree.

Now, the intrigue was stomped out, almost entirely nonexistent. And then those restless thoughts emerged at the back of her mind, and she blinked. Was that Charles' way of telling her what it was about? Or was it genuinely a coincidence? It was the not knowing that forced her heart to beat a little faster, her lungs to pump a little harder.

Her hands started moving, working to sort out the zipper fiasco and get the duffel closed. She swept over the room one last time to make sure she got everything—her clothes, her phone charger, anything she might have grabbed from the apartment. But it was all in her bag. Then, she pulled the strap onto her shoulder and hefted the bag up off the bed. As she stepped into the hallway, her index finger flicked off the light, and she carefully pulled the bedroom door closed.

It was a relief, truly, to be cutting these ties again. The freedom of independence was a rush she fell for every time, and she dove headlong into that adrenaline as she disappeared in purple smoke. When she reappeared, she stood just inside Charles' office. He sat in front of his desk, a book open in his palms. You wouldn't ever assume something stressful had happened earlier in the day with how calm, peaceful he looked while reading.

The appearance of her frame, shrouded in a brief lavender cloud, drew his eyes—his head rose and he looked up at her. Guilt flashed across his features. Though, Cassandra couldn't tell if it was for her sake or for his. "Again, my apologies for the late hour," he said, as he turned his chair to place the book on his desk. "Scott mentioned you planned to leave by the morning so I had to be quick."

"Uh huh. What is this about?" Cassandra questioned.

Charles turned his chair back to face her, and his expression slumped. "It's about Loki. I wasn't sure if I was going to tell you this—I didn't want to make your recovery process worse. But you deserve to know."

Her heart thudded to her toes, the grip she held on her duffel bag strap faltering, "What about Loki?"

"When the Tesseract was effectively shut down on the roof of Stark Tower, I was finally given access to his mind. Whatever had been shielding it before dissipated the second the portal was closed," Charles explained, gingerly, as though the words might physically hurt. Though, it did hurt—just not to him. "I saw...terrible things. Loki was not acting of his own free will. He hadn't been for some time. However, he was in control of himself when he left your apartment."

Cassandra's eyes instinctively narrowed, jaw clenching to brace against the slosh of her stomach contents. His words sunk in like a stick plunged into quicksand. The deeper they traveled, the more questions spilled into the hole it created, until there was nothing left but questions. Charles was quick to continue, eyeing her change in demeanor, "The stone inside the scepter was also influencing his actions, as it had your brother. It was uncertain just who pulled the strings."

There was a moment of silence. All other space in the room felt heavy, oxygen in the air thick, and she could've sworn the room had tilted. Loki was mind controlled, too? Was that why he brought her back from the dead and so willingly accepted capture? Why he didn't fight his return to Asgard with Thor and the Tesseract? It was starting to unravel within her head. But with it, a sudden jolt of anger. There was time in between the moment she closed the portal and when he'd been taken away.

Surely, Charles could've said something. He could've told everyone what happened, told them the truth, and spared Loki whatever heinous punishment he was given back home. The thought caused her blood to boil as her throat tightened, a mixture of resurfaced grief and guilt forming a lump too thick to swallow. "You couldn't have mentioned this when you found out?" she fought to refrain from shouting despite the slight tremble of her hands.

"The government would not have been satisfied without a perpetrator. There's no way to prove that this is true to a skeptic."

Cassandra raked her fingers back through her hair, forcing the strands out of her face by their blonding roots, and she turned away from him. She could not stomach looking at him much longer. There was no reason not to trust Charles' word, not with something this important. Even still, a part of her held onto skepticism in the hopes that she didn't jump too soon. That she didn't hold on long enough.

She'd been quick to decide he'd been sinister all along—and, with all that happened and the way he behaved, there was virtually no reason why she wouldn't be. But she had spent so long questioning his motivations, wondering how he could've truly lied his way through a two-year relationship that was so honest, so intimate. The revelation that he was not lying at all hit her hard in the gut.

The reality was this—Loki was who he claimed to be from the start. He left for the reason he claimed to in his goodbye letter. Someone took advantage of him and manipulated him into being the front man for an invasion of Earth. When his control was restored, he saved her life, and allowed everyone—including her—to believe he was a heartless, power-hungry monster. And now no one on Earth knew what was happening to him because of it.

"What the fuck, Charles?!" Cassandra whisper-yelled as she turned to face him, but the pain coloring her features overshadowed any anger in her voice. "You let Thor take him away in cuffs to face punishment for something he didn't do! They could've executed him, for all we know! You could've done it- you could've told fucking Nick Fury the truth, and you didn't! And now you tell me?!"

Though she started out somewhat quiet, her voice only rose the longer she berated him, until she was at a full shout. She hadn't noticed when the tears started but she could feel them now, white hot as they rolled down her cheeks. Charles sat in silence, this time listening to her anger toward him with acceptance. He didn't deny this pain. There was no excuse to be made, he knew, and the misery falling on her like acid rain was clearly preventable. All he had left was guilt—but what good would it do her?

They both knew she wouldn't accept any apology made. But she didn't want one. She simply wanted to be angry. To get it all out and speak what was on her mind before leaving for the foreseeable future, before being forcibly saddled with this new knowledge without means of doing anything to remove it. Because what else could she do with this information other than let it rot? Cassandra mustered what firmness she could, speaking through the silent tears slowly, "If I ever...feel you poking around...inside my head again...I will hurt you. Understand me? Stay. Out."

"I understand," Charles nodded once, solemn in the way his shoulders slumped.

Cassandra couldn't look at him any longer. She couldn't cry in front of him. So, she turned away and envisioned some place safe. Somewhere she wouldn't be found, where she could recuperate and sift through the rubble of this bombshell. And then she was gone, frame dissolved into purple that hung almost stagnant in the air where she once stood.