Death Valley
Since his 'death', Loki had been taking increasingly frequent trips sown to Midgard as his reign as Odin solidified. At first, he had started watching people, trying to see how he could, why he should, wipe his ledger clean in a world painted red.
It didn't take long for him to start following the earth-bound members of the Avengers, seeing, watching, how they justified their crimes against the good they did. He quickly became bored, and began to seek out the parts of the earth where the only colour was blood red, soaking through everything, drowning out all colour other than red.
Soon, he began to see her wherever he went, scarlet hair standing out amongst the ruby blood she waded through. She would dress up like royalty, yet would never be a member of the elite, as tainted as she was. She would undress slowly to impress the men she hunted, the villains and the monsters, before quickly dispatching them with an almost unnatural ease. It amazed him how her skin could remain so pure and white, when she had so much dirt, so much filth underneath her skin, a bifrost of red which he so desperately wished to see. He would see how she poured a few drops more in, whilst cleaning another spot.
Not long after, he started seeking her out, sightings became no longer happenstance, but certainty. Slowly, he began to understand how she lived with her ledger, how she could bear to take one step forward, and two steps back. She didn't he watched her fitful sleep, never completely switching off, eternally alert, paranoid, haunted. He would see her standing surrounded by death, joining him in the blood bath of their lives, the low point if the valley called death. They were alive, but soon, too soon, he would be left alone, wasting away for another couple of millennia before joining her in Helheim. They were the only two in the valley, and he wouldn't discount the idea of being something more than enemies, but that is all.
Finite.