A/N: And here we are. A nice chapter for you all. Hopefully the next one (last one, eek!) won't take as long for me to get out, because this one, like the last one, was another ball ache. But I've a sneaking suspicion it might just be me and my inability to concentrate for more than three seconds at a time. Anyway, hope you like it. Thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. Let me know what you think of this one!
Turn
by Flaignhan
"I can't believe you," Loki hisses, turning away from her, his hands clasped behind his back as he paces around his cell. Thor lingers in the corner, leaning against the wall, his gaze focused on the floor.
"It was the easiest way to illustrate my point," Natasha says calmly. She won't have Loki throw a tantrum over this. Tantrums won't get him out of his cell, if anything, they'll only keep him in there longer. Her actions, however flawed they might be when it comes to keeping herself safe, are at least productive, even if she does feel like she's taken a steel toe cap to the throat.
"And you," he snaps, whirling around to face Thor, who looks up sheepishly, biting his lip. "Letting her!"
"Brother, I cannot tell her what she can and can't do, and even if I tried, do you honestly think she would listen?" He moves out of the shadows, into the warm glow of the torchlight, but doesn't come much closer to the cell.
"You could have stepped in," Loki growls. "There was no need for this to - " he looks at Natasha's neck and his words seem to die in his throat, before he tears his gaze away. "How you could just sit there while he was doing that to her…"
"They're just bruises," Natasha says firmly, but her case isn't helped by the fact that her voice is croaky, even now, the morning after her run in with Frejir. "And the bruises match up exactly to the one on the photo of Helma! It's evidence."
"There have to be other ways of gathering evidence," Loki says sulkily, sitting down in the corner of his cell, knees pulled up to his chest. "You're not telling me that this is commonplace on your world."
"Well no, it's not," Natasha says, bristling a little. "But on my world we have trials, we have DNA - "
"DN-what?"
Natasha sighs, knowing she was right to not bother wasting her time with anything too scientific. If even Loki, who she considers to be rather aware of how things operate on Earth, doesn't know what DNA is, then how is she supposed to convince Odin that two different strings of numbers mean that it was Frejir who killed Helma, and it couldn't possibly have been Loki. She needs to tackle this in an old school way, and sometimes old school means being a little bit brutal.
"Precisely," Natasha says to him. "If you don't understand it, your dad certainly won't. But he can play spot the difference, any idiot can."
Loki smirks at this, probably knowing full well that she hadn't meant to call Odin an idiot, but it's nice to see something of a smile come from him. She's yet to see a proper one, and she's not sure she can't even think about getting over her month from hell until she does. There is something cleansing about his smile, something that gets rid of everything dark and mucky and unpleasant and leaves her feeling as though she's on a clean slate. Maybe it's selfish for her to want him to smile for her own benefit, but right now, she doesn't care, because it's what she needs, and it's hardly going to do him any harm.
"You know if you wanted to demonstrate your own bruising pattern - "
"No."
"Only on my arm!" Natasha protests. "And I'm sure if he could see the difference between the two, he'll have you out of here by lunchtime, Loki please."
"No. Find another way."
Natasha sighs, then turns to Thor, whose expression quite plainly reads I told you so, and she rolls her eyes. "C'mon," she says. "Let's go."
She casts one last look over her shoulder at Loki before she follows Thor from the dungeons, and it's with a heavy heart that she watches him secure the chains on the dungeon door, then double and triple check the padlock. Natasha chews her lip anxiously as they climb the stairs, wondering if Loki's got the measure of his father better than she has. She, being the foolish optimist, thinks that Odin will listen to what she has to say, hear a reasonable excuse to absolve his son from any blame for the murder of an innocent girl, and will release him. Loki, on the other hand, thinks that the death of the girl was the perfect excuse for Odin to claim that he was right all along, and that Loki should never have been given houseroom. She hasn't asked Thor what he thinks, and she doesn't know whether it's because she fears the answer, or because she knows that it doesn't really make any difference anyway. All she can do is argue Loki's innocence, provide the evidence she's gathered and hope that common sense will prevail.
When they arrive in the throne room, Thor instructs the guards to leave, and, after a nod of approval from Odin, they oblige, marching in sync towards the exit and closing the doors behind them. Odin gestures for Natasha and Thor to come forward, and Natasha manages to pinpoint the exact moment he spots the bruises around her neck. His eye narrows, his lips twitching into a tight line, but he doesn't ask any questions.
"Father," Thor begins, in his most earnest tone. "Natasha has gathered evidence to prove that Loki did not kill the girl. She'd like to present it to your for your consideration, if she may."
Odin waves a hand and Thor nods encouragingly at Natasha, so she steps forward, her phone held tightly in one hand, and decides to treat it like a briefing, back down at headquarters.
"First, from a psychological point of view, Loki is more stable now than he's been for a long time. There's no way he lost his mind and killed that girl, and no way he would have tried to make her look like me. That's just how it is. Also, killing little girls, not really Loki, if we're being honest. I'm guessing everyone in this room has taken a life," she glances sideways at Thor, who is gazing at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him, then up at Odin, whose eyebrows are pulled together in a small frown. "But," she continues, taking a breath, "That doesn't mean that we'd kill a young girl, just because. Granted Loki's…indiscretions were a little more severe than any of ours may have been, but all the same, he had reasons, motive, a cause. The death of this girl, if it had been Loki who was responsible, would have had no cause, no outcome other than him being put back in his cell."
She takes another breath, pausing to see if Odin or Thor have anything to say, but when she is greeted by a heavy silence, she ploughs on, feeling as though she's trying to run through treacle. "You can of course see the bruising patterns on my neck," she says, and Odin nods. "I got these last night from a guard called Frejir. I don't know if you remember, but he attacked me in the dungeons when I was guarding Loki, some time ago."
"And he was punished accordingly," Odin says coldly.
"Yeah," Natasha says quickly. "And I appreciate that. But the bruises on my neck match the ones on Helma's neck. I have a photograph that I took yesterday when we went to see the body, if you'd care to take a look?"
Odin beckons her forward, and she quickly finds the photo in her collection of pictures, climbing the steps up towards Odin's throne. She hands him the phone and he frowns at it, then looks up at the bruises on Natasha's neck.
"Loki's hands are thinner, they couldn't have left marks like that. Frejir tried to strangle me before, it seems to be his preferred method of despatch…Loki, on the other hand, prefers knives, doesn't he?"
"There are no knives in Loki's chambers," Odin says, passing the phone back to Natasha without commenting on the bruises. "He would not have been able to use a knife."
"So how could he have cut off the girl's hair?"
Her question is greeted by a stony silence, and she glances towards Thor, who gives her the smallest of nods.
"Also," Natasha says, sliding across the photos until she finds the clear shot of Helma's hand. "There was blood under her nails, because she put up a fight." She shows Odin and he simply raises an eyebrow, so she slides across again until she reaches the shot of Frejir's scratched hand. "He has scratched hands. Loki's hands aren't scratched."
"Do you have any substantial proof to show me?" Odin asks boredly. "There's no way this guard could have gotten into Loki's chambers. No way at all."
"And yet you expect Loki to be able to pick a lock through a solid door?" Natasha asks skeptically.
"Loki is devious and resourceful," Odin says, his tone not holding even the slightest clue that he's speaking about his own son. "A good combination, providing he is on your side. But Loki doesn't take sides, he fights his own corner, and always has. It would be unwise to underestimate him."
"Someone tampered with the lock," Natasha says, pulling the metal cylinder from her pocket. "It's a false interior, and the lock pops open about a minute after it's been closed. If Frejir had been watching Thor and Loki's routine, if he'd known when they would go to the woods, and what time the chains on the door would be left undone, the padlock open, then it would have been easy for him to slip down the corridor and plant that in the lock."
"I have also discovered that Frejir's father is a blacksmith, Father. He would have been able to manufacture something of that specification." It's the first bit of information Thor has to offer, and Natasha has no idea where it's come from. He hasn't mentioned Frejir's father to her, and she wonders if he did some digging around last night while she was lying awake in Loki's bed, unable to sleep knowing that he was several floors below, curled up in his cell with that tatty old blanket, most likely being plagued by nightmares.
Odin raises an eyebrow, and when Natasha realises she has no more photographs to show him, she retreats down the steps, returning to Thor's side in a show of solidarity.
"All of Asgard believes Loki killed that girl - "
"That what Frejir wants them to - "
Odin holds up a hand and Natasha falls silent. "You have compelling evidence to suggest that Loki may not be responsible, I admit. But unless you can place that guard's hands around that girl's neck at the time of her death with no room for argument, then Loki remains where he is."
"But Father, the bruises - "
"Are just bruises. My first duty is to the people of this realm, not to the son who has lied and killed for his own selfish gains." His tone is cold, final, his gaze uncaring. Natasha is about to argue, she even opens her mouth, but Thor steps on her foot and the words fail to come. She turns to look at him and he shakes his head minutely. After a moment she lets out a sigh of resignation.
"Thank you for your time," she says, with a gracious nod, knowing that good manners certainly won't harm her cause. To her surprise, Odin returns the gesture, before Thor leads her away, out of the throne room and down the hallway. Natasha doesn't say a word until they reach the courtyard, and she feels like she's about to explode with frustration.
"Loki said," Thor sighs. "He knew that Father would never…"
"Give me that guard's hands around that girl's neck," Natasha repeats venomously. "What the hell is this, if not that?" she gestures to her neck, covered in deep purple blotches, almost black in some places, but Thor shakes his head.
"He needs something that not even Frejir's own family could argue against. If he releases Loki, it will be seen as favouritism, and Loki will spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the girl's relatives. We need something better, something undeniable."
"Well we could always use a time machine to go back and catch him in the act," Natasha says sarcastically. Thor doesn't respond, and she even thinks she detects the faintest hint of an eye roll come from him. Were she not so angry and frustrated, the idea would make her smile, but as it stands, she doesn't feel like she'll smile ever again. Or at least not until Frejir is locked up and Loki is pardoned.
'Come on," Thor says tiredly. "Let's go and tell Loki. Maybe he has an idea." He heads across the courtyard, paying no notice to those who send polite greetings his way. They walk in silence, Natasha's mind whirring, her feet operating on autopilot as she tries to rack her brains for something, anything, that could, without a shred of doubt, place Frejir's hands around the neck of that girl. When her mind starts to wander towards possible escape plans for Loki that involve seeking refuge on Earth, she knows she has to wind things back and start again, taking each detail of the murder and trying to link it back to Frejir so absolutely, that the people of Asgard will be asking why Loki was ever imprisoned in the first place.
When they reach the cell, Loki is slouched against the wall, hands resting on his stomach. He straightens slightly when he sees them, but when his eyes land on Natasha's sour expression, he slumps back, any fragment of hope that had been faintly glowing within him extinguished in a matter of moments.
"Don't tell me," he drawls. "He didn't listen."
"He wants something concrete."
Loki closes his eyes and rests his head in his hands, his fingers tangling in his unkempt hair. He inhales deeply a few times, letting out long, shaky sighs.
"We'll find something," Natasha says softly, taking a step closer to the glass. "I promise you, we'll - "
"What will you find, exactly?" he asks sharply, looking up. His eyes are clouded with a sense of defeat, and seeing that feels like a punch in the gut to Natasha. Had this really been his very last hope? Had he really convinced himself that if he didn't manage to get a pardon this very day, that he would never be pardoned?
"We can - "
"The girl's body has been destroyed, Natasha. Frejir's gotten away with everything. They may as well just send me to the gallows, in fact, I think I'd rather that."
"Don't say that," Natasha hisses, her fists clenching tightly at her side. "Don't you dare fucking say that." A lump forms in her throat, far too large for her to swallow down and continue berating him, and she can feel the hot, unpleasant prickle at the edges of her lower lids that tells her she needs to take a deep breath and ignore his stupid comments.
"What's the alternative?" he snaps, pushing himself to his feet and stalking around his cell. "Staying in here the rest of my life? Eating fucking porridge for breakfast everyday? Never getting to the other side of this fucking glass?" He turns around a kicks the glass forcefully, but the only result is a nasty crack, not from the glass, but from Loki's foot. He screws up his face in pain and frustration and sinks to the floor, clutching his foot, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
She doesn't have anything to say, knowing that if it were her trapped in that cell, the prospect of eternity stretching out before her, she'd be itching to lay her neck on the chopping block too. If nothing else, it would mean one last trip outside before it's all over.
"Just go back to Midgard," he says stiffly, still trying to ease the pain out of his foot. "Don't bother wasting your time."
"You know even if you never get out of here, I'm not just gonna go back to Earth and forget about you. I'm gonna stay here. With you. We can play poker through the glass."
He exhales softly, his teeth pulling on the inside of his lower lip as he surveys her, eyes slightly brighter than normal. He swallows and looks away, his hand stilling on his foot, his shoulders slumped, and Natasha steps closer to the glass, resting her fingertips against it.
"Whatever happens," she says, her breath misting on the glass. "I mean it. I'm not just gonna go back to Earth and leave you."
He nods, but doesn't look at her, and takes a few deep breaths. Natasha watches him, hoping that her words will be enough to chase away any poisonous thoughts about choosing the gallows over another night alone in this cell. She has the seed of a plan forming in the back of her mind, and she knows that neither Loki nor Thor will like it one little bit, but it's the best chance they're going to have.
Lunch arrives with a loud clatter, breaking the silence, and all three of them flinch. Thor obediently walks over to the dumbwaiter and picks up the tray, bringing it over to Loki's cell and stepping through to the inside. He crouches before Loki and sets down the tray on the floor in front of him, surveying him with a soft expression, then places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
"Eat, brother," he says quietly. "You need your strength."
Loki sighs and halfheartedly pulls the cover off of his food, but when he looks at it, his eyebrows draw together in a frown.
"Something wrong?" Natasha asks.
"It's stew," Loki says, dipping his spoon in the bowl. He lifts up some of the stew then tips the spoon, allowing it to drop back into the bowl with a small splash. "And bread."
"Sorry, did you order the lobster or something?" She's not sure what his problem is. He was quite happy to eat stew and bread when he was in here before, in fact, there were days when he would wolf it down, barely pausing to chew the meat.
"It's a step up in cuisine, let's put it that way," Loki says slowly, tearing off a piece of the bread and taking a bite out of it.
"Father must have told the kitchens," Thor says, the corner of his mouth curving upwards into a hint of a smile. "All is not lost, Loki."
"Really?" Loki asks between mouthfuls, one dark eyebrow raised skepitcally. "Because I'm pretty sure that there's no evidence left to get. Not now the girl's body's been cremated."
"We need more than evidence," Natasha says quietly as Thor steps back through the glass. "We need a confession."
Loki chokes on his food, and thumps himself in the chest with his fist a couple of times to try and clear his airway. After a little coughing and spluttering, and a concerned step back towards the cell from Thor, Loki, eyes shining and a little red at the edges, says, "And how exactly do you propose we get one of those?"
"Ye of little faith…" Natasha sighs. "You of all people should know I have my own special methods of extracting information." As soon as she says it, she regrets it, knowing that a jibe about their run in on the helicarrier is the last thing he needs right now. Apparently though, it doesn't sting as much as she thought it would. Her words roll off his back, and maybe it's the half decent food that makes the comment insignificant to him, or maybe he doesn't mind her having won that round, but he continues as though nothing's happened.
"What are you planning?" he asks, eyes narrowed.
"You're not gonna like it," she warns him, folding her arms across her chest. "But it's the only way."
"Are you going to get hurt?" he asks, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he waits for her answer.
"It's nothing I can't handle," she says quietly, and he puts his spoon down, then places his bowl back on the tray. She hates it when he does that, hates that he knows his mini hunger strikes get to her, even though she knows, deep down, that he won't be going hungry for long. After his complaints about the porridge, she would have hoped that his childish refusal to eat just because he doesn't like what he's hearing would have been placed on the back burner, but apparently not. It seems he'd rather spend an eternity in his cell than risk Natasha getting a couple more bruises to match the ones on her neck.
"I hate it when you say that," he mutters, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. He seems so small when he does that, so childlike, his eyes wide and staring as he observes her.
"Why?"
"Because it's exactly what you said before you went away…and look at the mess you came back in. You're still not right, and I know that you won't be for a long time. And I hate it."
Natasha doesn't have anything to say to that. Nothing I can't handle is her default response to everything that threatens to overwhelm her. Often, she feels like she's trying to convince herself that she'll be fine, rather than everyone else, and perhaps it works, because she will swear blind to anyone who asks that she handled her last assignment just fine. The fact that she's alive is proof enough that she handled it. But really, when it comes down to it, she's a ticking time bomb, waiting for Loki's situation to be resolved before she'll explode. Her run in with Frejir the previous evening helped her ease out a little of her anger, but she still spent most of the night laying awake in Loki's bed being haunted by images of Isabella and Anastasia, trapped in a cage, feral, inhuman, and all because she didn't do enough quickly enough.
She blinks, the dungeon coming back into focus, and lets out a soft sigh. "I'm fine," she says. "Or I will be, once you're out of here."
He's far too predictable. She only had to walk past him and his friends once, alone, and within five minutes he's following her, his pitiful attempts at stealth leaving numerous twigs snapped underfoot, stones dislodged from the edge of the path, his breaths heavy as he tries to keep up with her. She can't believe how much noise he's making. In comparison to her he's like a herd of elephants, trampling along behind her without any sense of subtlety. She slows her pace, growing bored as she waits for him to reach her, and then, when his footsteps grow even louder, and she can feel her skin prickle with the knowledge of his close proximity, she turns, only to be met with a sharp blow to the head.
She knows nothing until she comes round, her shoulders stiff, the familiar, crispy sensation of dried blood on the left side of her face. She tries to move, but heavy chains are holding her in place in a hard, wooden chair. She can hear lumbering footsteps as he wanders around, and the gentle clinks of the chains around her chest as she takes steady, shallow breaths. Her head is pounding, and she opens her eyelids, just a crack, to try and check her surroundings. She instantly recognises the familiar light of the dungeons - the dim torches contrasting with the harsh bright lights of Loki's cell. She takes a moment to feel just a little smug, knowing Frejir far too well, before she lets out a soft groan and opens her eyes properly, alerting Frejir to her consciousness.
Loki is sitting on the far side of his cell, fists clenched tight, lips pressed into a thin line, and she knows, just from one glimpse at him, that his heart is thudding furiously in his chest, and that he wants nothing more than to smash down the walls of his cell and tear Frejir into a million and one tiny pieces. His eyes meet hers and she gives him a faint, reassuring smile, though it does little to set him at ease. His fingers are tapping nervously against his leg, his jaw muscles twitching as his gaze follows Frejir's movements.
"You'll notice I've taken extra precautions, this time," Frejir says, coming round to the front of Natasha so she can see him. From the corner of her eye, Natasha sees Loki take her phone from his pocket, and prays that the battery will last long enough. More importantly, she hopes he hasn't forgotten how to work it, and that even his bubbling stress levels haven't cast her quick tutorial from his mind.
"I suppose there are only so many times you can handle getting beat up by a girl," Natasha sighs, looking up at him coldly.
As she expects, Frejir lashes out, the back of his hand connecting with Natasha's cheek bone, sending her head whipping over to her left shoulder. Loki lets out a yell, but Natasha remains silent, letting out a slow, shaky breath as the stinging sensation starts to fade.
"Frejir, if you hurt her - "
"You'll what?" Frejir growls, taking a step towards the glass. "What are you going to do from inside your cage?"
Loki is breathing heavily now, his ribcage heaving, nostrils flared, phone trembling in his hand.
"So what's the point of this, exactly?" Natasha asks, drawing Frejir's attention away from Loki. "You're gonna keep me chained up here until the morning when Thor comes down to give Loki his breakfast? Is that it?"
"You'll be dead by then," Frejir says darkly. "And I will be long gone. And Loki the liar, will be telling people that it wasn't him, that it was guard, and no one will believe him."
"Just like they didn't believe him when he said he didn't kill Helma?" Natasha asks, her breath caught in her chest as she awaits his answer, her mouth dry with anticipation.
"Who?"
Anger flares in Natasha's veins, hot and bubbling, and she wants to break out of the chains and beat Frejir into a pulp. "Helma," she snaps. "That's the name of the girl that you killed." Surely he must know the name - the whole of Asgard must have been buzzing with the news that the wayward prince had killed an innocent girl. He must have heard her name on one of his drunken nights at the inn, from family, friends, anyone who actually gives a damn about the death of that poor girl.
"Oh," Frejir says with a shrug. "I didn't stop to ask her name."
Loki's eyes flash, but Natasha shakes her head minutely. She wants more than that. She wants a confession so absolute that no one can claim that the words were lost in translation, or that his tone or the context suggests something entirely different. She didn't come all this way, and take the blow to the head that she did simply so their own complacency can see them fall at the last hurdle when Odin makes the demand for more.
"So you're going to frame Loki again, just like before when you killed Helma," Natasha says, her eyes fixed on Frejir's every move as he walks around her chair. She twists under the chains when he walks behind her, wanting to be prepared for any cowardly attack that might come from behind. He's already proved himself to be less than honourable, so she knows she could never expect a fair fight from him. Not that she fights fair, she'll admit, but she'd never chain an opponent up in order to beat them. That's just pathetic in her eyes.
"You mortals are so painfully slow," he says impatiently. "Yes, and I will get away with it, again."
Natasha ignores the jibe. "But how the hell is Loki supposed to get out of his cell to murder me?" she asks. "I mean, that's stupid. Everyone knows he's trapped in there. If he could get out, why the hell did he spend months rotting in there?"
"He has magic that others don't," Frejir answers confidently, spinning around to face her. "All it takes is one whisper mentioning that and all of Asgard will believe he killed you. Besides, he already killed the other girl, it was stupid of you to come anywhere near him, knowing he was after your blood."
"When I get out of here," Loki says softly, standing up and approaching the glass. "I will make sure you have a new understanding of what pain is. You lay a hand on her, and I will destroy you, your family, your friends, and I will burn every last trace of you down to the ground until there is nothing left but ash."
"Except the only time you'll be getting out is when they take you to the gallows, because you can't even be trusted not to kill when you're in the dungeons. You'll get the axe for this, Loki." He smirks, and Natasha feels her stomach jolt, not only from the disgusting glee that Frejir has over the thought of Loki being executed, but the fact that she knows he has pushed Loki too far. They have enough now, more than enough to secure Loki's freedom, and Loki knows that. It's why Loki's smirk is matching Frejir's, which soon falters in confusion. He looks down at Natasha's phone in Loki's hand, a scowl forming on his face.
"Midgardian," Loki says, almost cheerfully. "For such a primitive race - no offence - "
Natasha hardly thinks it's the time to be taking such digs to heart, and so she rolls her eyes, Loki's smirk growing more pronounced in response before he continues.
" - they really do have some interesting technology. This is Natasha's cellphone," he says, holding it aloft so the Frejir can get a better look at it. "It means that the mortals can contact each other, even if they're on opposite sides of the planet. Rather clever if you ask me."
"Why do you have it?" Frejir demands through gritted teeth. His fists are clenched, his biceps bulging and twitching, and Natasha can see a vein throbbing in his temple.
"Apart from letting the mortals talk to one another, it also takes these things called photographs," Loki continues, glancing towards Natasha, checking to see if he's remembered correctly. She gives him a nod and he continues. "Which are pictures of real life. No need for a portrait artist, because a cellphone can do that for you." He smiles at Frejir, and his smugness seems to radiate off of him, even in his pale, bedraggled, prison state. With every millimetre that Loki's smile stretches wider, Frejir's confidence takes another blow, like Loki is taking an axe to the base of his plan and hacking away at it without a care in the world.
"I don't see what these photographs have to do with anything," Frejir spits, his fists trembling now, knuckles popping under the skin.
Natasha glances towards the door, wondering how much longer she's going to be stuck in this chair for, because it's all very well and good Loki winding up Frejir from the safety of his cell, but she's the one sitting here at Frejir's mercy. She tries to move one of her wrists, but it's held fast against the arm of the chair by the weight of the chains. She then attempts to wriggle her shoulders out a little, to maybe dislodge a couple of links with the hope that it'll set off movement in the links that follow, but she has no such luck. Frejir, for all his dimwittedness, has done a very thorough job of ensuring she can't beat him this time.
"Yes, but this is where the mortals get even cleverer," Loki says, and Natasha catches him glimpse towards the door. He's getting just as impatient as she is, and he must know he can only distract Frejir for so long until he gets bored. He can't possibly have overestimated Frejir's attention span. Overestimating people isn't in Loki's nature.
"Mortals aren't clever," Frejir snaps. "They're filthy apes that learned to talk far too much." He shoots a disgusted look towards Natasha and she smirks, knowing it will infuriate him but hardly able to care at this point.
"But they are," Loki says, his eyes alight with glee. "Because even better than photographs are videos. They capture real life as it happens. And, as if by magic, you can play it back on the screen. So if, for example, I used this cellphone," he gestures to it casually, his eyes never leaving Frejir, his teeth bared in a grin. "To record you confessing to the murder of that poor girl, and I played that back to Odin, to the people of Asgard, then everyone would know that you're a filthy good for nothing bastard who murders little girls."
"You're lying," Frejir mumbles, taking a step back from the glass and shaking his head. "You're lying."
"Oh my dear Frejir, if only I were," Loki replies with feigned empathy. "And not only that but all of Asgard will be able to see you threaten to kill Natasha, reveal your plan to frame me again, and it will be you, not I, that takes the long walk up to the gallows tomorrow at sundown."
Frejir shakes his head, his teeth clamping down hard on his lower lip. "No," he says. "No."
"Yes."
Frejir inhales sharply, and his breathing becomes erratic as he looks down at his hands, at a loss for what to do. "Destroy it," he says at last, moving forwards until he's so close to the glass that he's practically got his nose pressed up against it.
"No," Loki says with a chuckle. "Not a chance. This is my ticket out of here, why would I ever destroy it?"
"Destroy it!" Frejir howls, slamming his giant hammy fist against the glass. Natasha feels the reverberations travel through the floor and up the legs of her chair, causing an unpleasant sensation of discomfort in the pit of her stomach. Loki doesn't bat an eyelid however, not even when Frejir removes his fist from the glass to reveal a tiny, hairline crack in the panel. It repairs itself instantly, but it's the most damage Natasha has ever seen the cell wall take. She'd always thought of it as indestructible, but perhaps not. She bites her lip and casts another glance over towards the door.
"I don't know why you ever thought you could outsmart Natasha," Loki says. "You've had a fairly decent run, but your time is up. Accept it."
Frejir shakes his head. "Destroy it. I'm warning you."
Loki shakes his head and turns away, heading back to the corner of his cell. Frejir waits a moment, like a child half expecting a parent to turn around and cave in to their whimsical demands, but when Loki takes a seat, his legs crossed casually at the ankles, Frejir loses what little grip he had left on his temper. With an almighty roar he turns around and hauls Natasha, chair, chains and all into the air before launching her towards the wall. In the split second before she crashes into the stone, she squeezes her eyes shut and dips her head as best she can to offer some sort of protection, her muscles tensed as Loki yells.
The chair splinters as she smashes into the wall, crunching underneath the chains, sharp jagged edges digging into her spine. She falls to the floor with a thud, her entire body humming with pain, her head spinning as she tries to make sense of things. The chains are a little looser, now that the chair is in pieces, but she barely has the strength to move. She can't figure out if Frejir's broken every bone in her body or none at all, and she tries to blink away the confusion. Loki continues to yell at Frejir, desperately trying to distract his attention away from Natasha, but the only thing she can really register is the sound of his heavy footfalls getting closer and closer. He grabs her by her hair and hauls her up, and this time she can't stifle the grunt of pain that escapes her. She can barely breathe, her lungs straining in her aching chest, and through unfocused eyes she sees Loki, hammering on the glass, his mouth forming words that are floating through one ear and out the other without stopping to make any mark on her mind.
Frejir shakes her roughly, and a few fragments of the chair fall out from under the chains, though Natasha is still far too constricted to be able to defend herself, the chains dragging her down, leaving deep welts in her flesh. The coppery taste of blood tingles on the tip of her tongue, and she tries to swallow it down, her lips warm and drenched in scarlet.
"Destroy it or I'll kill her."
The words filter through into Natasha's brain, and she vaguely acknowledges that it's her that Frejir's talking about. She should probably tell Loki not to listen, because Frejir's going to kill her one way or the other, but saying words aloud is something that is far beyond her. She can't seem to get control of herself, and it feels as though her brain is drowning and just accepting the inevitable.
She doesn't flinch at the sound of the crash, but when she's dropped unceremoniously to the floor, she lets out a groan. There is a flash, and a lot of noise, and Natasha sees Loki fall back just a little, away from the glass, letting out a soft sigh. She manages to turn her head enough to see Thor standing over a crumpled Frejir, hammer in hand, raised high above Frejir's head. Thor's teeth are bared, and he looks almost feral, his left hand gripping Frejir by the neck, the expression on his face daring Frejir to try and escape, to give him just enough reason to pulverise him.
"Frejir," a cool, calm voice rings out, and Natasha finds it easier to focus on this one than the others. "You are guilty of murder, attempted murder, and treason."
"My king I - "
"Silence!" Odin hisses. "Loki, I trust you have his confession to show the people of Asgard."
"Yes father," Loki says softly.
"Very well. Frejir, for your heinous crimes, I hereby sentence you to death - "
"No!"
"- by beheading, tomorrow at sun down. Guards, take him."
There is a clatter of armour as half a dozen guards move forward, and Thor releases Frejir, keeping one foot on his chest plate, holding him still until the guards have a firm grip on him. They drag him away, and Natasha can't make much sense of his screams of protest, but suddenly Thor is crouched down beside her, gently pulling away the chains from her body.
"Father," Loki says in a small voice. "Please."
There is a loud thunk as Odin taps his staff solidly on the ground, and the glass panels of Loki's cage flicker and disappear. Thor moves aside immediately, taking the phone that Loki presses into his hand before he falls to his knees beside Natasha, cradling her head against his chest, his hands shaking as he holds her.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."
She can't form the words to tell him to stop worrying, but she feels much better for being rid of the chains. Now that the weight is gone, she's able to take deeper breaths, which at first make her head spin, but soon things fall back into place, and she manages to press her lips to the palm of Loki's hand. He pulls her closer in response, and the pressure of his hold hurts, but in a good way, in a way that she's unwilling to give up, just for the sake of breathing easier. She can feel the dampness of his tears against her face, and closes her fingers softly around his wrist, unable to communicate in any other way that everything's fine.
"Take her to the healing room. Thor, go with him."
In one swift motion, Loki stands, Natasha in his arms, and the last thing she remembers before her brain finally gives up the battle for consciousness is Thor, leading the way out of the dungeon for the last time.