NOTE - Loki's version of Scratch Marks, and his 'morning after' thoughts.

Dark and Bright

That kiss, now. Loki had embraced many creatures: Aesir, Vanir, dryads, even a Jotun or two; the act was a momentary fingerpost on the road to seduction. Furthermore, when the Widow sat on his couch, accepted the drink called whiskey (served in the mugs Thor had given him for coffee – he had nothing else) and started to argue with him, a kiss was the very last thing on his mind. And he would have wagered all of Fandral's hacksilver it was the last on Natasha's, especially when their bickering turned into an all-out fight.

At one point he shouted something about his past. "Everyone expects the worst from me! It is always Thor who gleams with possibility…"

"At least you have a brother," Natasha interrupted coolly. "My family died in a fire before I was sent to the organization that made me what I am today."

Of course he already knew her history, but it made him pause. Gods forbid he be anything like the heartless, soulless, emotionless female drinking his liquor. And drinking it handily at that, with a flick of her wrist belying her experience with strong brew. "He is not my brother," Loki began, but she struck in again.

"Aren't you tired of saying that over and over again? Because I'm pretty sick of hearing it, if you want to know the truth. I get that you have a shitty background – so do I, as a matter of fact – but at some point you're going to have to move on. Get over it. Find something else to complain about."

"Why should I? It is part of who I am." Loki finished his drink and poured himself another; after a moment he offered the bottle to the redhead at his side. She accepted it with a grin that made him privately reassess her. Could anyone with that glorious a face be truly emotionless?

"Because that's working out so well for you," she added with a snort as she tossed back the whiskey. "I had to undergo physical engineering which would make you faint."

"I was tortured by the Other."

"Torture," she scoffed. "That's routine in my job."

Loki considered her for a moment as she sat on the old couch he had been given, holding the coffee mug against her chest. "It has been difficult to learn of some of the deaths," he said in a low voice. He had no idea where that confession came from – it was something he had not even allowed himself to think, let alone speak.

She leaned forward, her knees spread slightly and her hands clasped around the mug. "Actually, I do understand that. My husband, Ivan, the others from the Red Room program – I've had to outlive them. After a while I had to develop a certain immunity to sadness. Many think I am cold because of it, but in reality it's just part of self-preservation."

Slowly he nodded. "Yes. Shutting part of yourself off, like closing a wing of a large house to avoid the memories within – or because you cannot afford to heat it any longer."

"Exactly."

"Do you think doing so allows that portion to cave in, weaken the entire structure? After many years, say?" Loki didn't know if it was the alcohol, but the conversation was more interesting than any he could remember.

"It depends where the damage lies. If it is load-bearing, then of course it could create a domino effect – a series of further collapses spreading throughout the house." She grinned at him again. "But we are comparing mental activity to actual physics, when the two are quite different. Minds are not subject to gravity or constancy of motion."

He felt his own mouth spread in a delighted smile. "Gravity, perhaps not. But mental constancy of motion seems to make sense. Once a certain idea takes hold, it can be difficult to turn away from the current pursuit."

Natasha's green eyes met and held his. "Well said. I'll allow there are mental physics – although I would hate to allow a figment of my imagination hold such sway over me."

"Figment, yes. However, suppose the idea is real? True? Something you cannot avoid?"

Her head tilted with curiosity; when was the last time a woman listened to his ramblings with so much interest? "Example," she demanded.

Loki shrugged. "I suppose – love, for instance." As soon as the word left his lips, he wanted to reclaim it - wished he had said hatred instead. Natasha had once renounced the idea of love to him, but there had been four inches of glass between them at the time.

Unhurried, she drank the last of the whiskey in her glass and put it on the table before rising. "It's getting late," she said. "I have a day-long meeting tomorrow…"

"Not the most original excuse." Loki got up with her, looked down into her eyes. The rest of the room seemed to darken in contrast to the flame of her hair, and he realized with a flicker of something like fear he was about to make a connection. With a mortal. And an enemy, at that.

Before he could reconsider, she reached up, looped slender fingers around the back of his neck, and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Thank you for the whiskey and the conversation," she said gravely.

He couldn't help gasping at her touch. Loki stepped closer, framed her face with his hands, and kissed her back. Oh, delicious, he thought. Those soft, full lips were even tastier in reality than what he had dreamed…

But Loki wanted more. He always wanted more.

Wondering, he licked her bottom lip. Tasted her skin. Teeth. And tongue, as she licked him back.

So mortals do that too! The room seemed to whirl around him, and he wrapped his arms around her so he wouldn't stagger or go off-balance with the strange sensation overtaking him. Her mouth moved against his, her strong arms wrapped around his body, one leg stepped between his to bring her even closer. Loki couldn't stop a tiny whimper from his throat, and an answering whimper came from the beautiful assassin kissing him.

He knew she could feel his arousal. Gods, it had been too long since he had held someone so sweetly, the kiss going on longer than he had dared to hope. If he moved, she might break away, escape, repeat the ridiculous excuse about a meeting – but he couldn't last much longer. Loki needed her between his sheets that moment.

Natasha did move back, and his sigh was of disappointment. It was replaced with a surge of desire an instant later as she jerked her head in the direction of his bedroom.

During the meeting the following day while he watched Natasha take notes, Loki recalled their movements in his bed the night before – how she alternated between being generous and demanding, her gyrations on top of him, the wild curls and her bright face among his pillows as he pleasured her. He wanted her again, wanted to thrust inside her tiny, firm body until she screamed his name for him once more.

But he wanted to continue their conversation as well. Her mind was as interesting as her physique; he wanted to hear more about her past, learn her opinions – oh, Hel, on anything. Maybe he just wanted to hear her voice, so intelligent and matter-of-fact. And the way it got breathy when they pressed together on his narrow mattress.

Still, he couldn't evade the fact that he was the bitterest villain in this or any other realm. If he asked Natasha to spend more time with him, her answer would be No. He knew it. He was no longer a prince – he lived in a small set of rooms with ridiculous furniture he had been given. He could give her neither riches nor power – not even security. Why would she ever want to be with him again?

Next to him in the dark meeting room, her breath hitched in her throat. And at that tiny sound he felt a flood of hope, but when he turned to meet her eyes he filled his expression with the despair he felt a moment earlier. He knew it would call to the Valkyrie in her soul and make her want to do the exact opposite of what was expected of her.

An eternal moment passed before he felt her arm reach out, felt her little finger link through his.

Probably it was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced in his life, and he had to concentrate on withholding his physical excitement, right there in front of her and all the other agents. Thank the gods it was so dark in the room!

Natasha released him, leaving his nerves tingling, and sat back to ask a question. Loki felt in his pocket and produced a card presented to him by a female he had met in a tavern or 'club'. At the time the woman told him to call her; he had held onto the number as a mark of one tiny victory.

He ripped off a piece of the card and wrote one question mark on it. As Natasha asked a question of her own to the absurd youth running the meeting he pushed the paper under her hand and sat back to observe her comment, intelligent and penetrating, as always. Natasha's query sparked a series of discussions within the room; he ignored the chatter as he waited for her response.

The scrap was tucked back into his fist, and quickly he opened it. When he saw what she had written, Loki couldn't hold back his smile of triumph.

He left the meeting when it came to an end after what seemed an eternity, following Natasha so he could admire her backside. Beside the door there was a receptacle meant for collecting the scraps known as 'trash'.

Loki tossed the rest of the card with the woman's number inside. He no longer wanted or needed it.