A/N: Excuse me while I kick this chapter out the door and onto the internet, but it's been an awful bastard. Hope you like it. ;)
The Interloper
by Flaignhan
"You're not telling me it hasn't crossed your mind."
"No," Natasha snaps, slamming her mug down on the table, coffee splashing onto the wooden surface. "It hasn't crossed my mind."
Loki frowns. "Really?"
"Really."
"Not even once?"
"Not even once!" she says frustratedly, her patience running low. She is still furious with him, and this topic of conversation is doing nothing to improve her mood. She's only a few more jibes away from beating him to a bloody pulp. "Why are you so surprised by that?"
"Well," he says, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug as he stares down into his drink. "I would have thought it would have been right up your street."
"What?"
"You know," he says, a grin spreading slowly across his face, his irritatingly white teeth bared. "I'm a god from the wrong side of the tracks, you're an ex-spy who's switched sides and is now working for the American government…"
"You've been watching way too much TV," Natasha tells him. She picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip, and her mind immediately jumps to Sean. She knows there's no point in texting him or calling him, or even going to see him. Last night messed things up beyond repair, and really, what can she possibly say to him after that debacle?
"No I haven't," Loki argues, his smile disappearing.
"Yes you have," she replies. "I'm gonna get rid of it. I don't watch the fucking thing but - "
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Get rid of it," he says stiffly. "I need it."
"For what?"
He shrugs, running his thumbnail along a scratch in the table top, avoiding her eye. She doesn't say anything however, and she won't let the conversation move on until he provides her with an answer. If he wants something to occupy his time, he has the entire city on his doorstep, he has the world at his feet. He doesn't have any responsibilities. He isn't tied down by a job or a mortgage or mortality. He can do what he wants, when he wants, and Natasha supposes that that's why she finds it so god damn frustrating that all he's willing to do is lie in front of the TV all day long.
"For what?" she asks again, more softly this time, when he doesn't answer.
"Because…" he begins, but he trails off quickly, apparently losing sight of his answer before it has fully formed. "Because I need to know that there are people in the universe who…" he stops again, resting his forehead on the heel of his palm, his eyebrows drawn into a frown, but Natasha thinks she knows where he's going with it.
"Who have it worse than you? Whose families are way more fucked up than yours?"
He shrugs, and Natasha knows she has hit the nail on the head.
"So watching a TV show about some hick cousins that are expecting a baby makes you feel better about being adopted?"
"A bit," he admits, glancing up at her, then looking away again as he leans back in his chair. "I mean, I'd rather be adopted than inbred."
Natasha feels her lips twitch into a small, amused smile at this, some of her anger with him diffusing. He is impossible, ridiculous, and insane, but she also finds herself feeling sorry for him. He's spent weeks locked up in her apartment because the outside world scares him, with his eyes glued to shitty talk shows because he needs to know that he's not bottom of the barrel in the universe. He actually needs a daily reminder of that, and that's…that's sad.
"I can't believe you were going to sleep with him," he says abruptly, changing the subject. Natasha's sympathy vanishes in an instant and she scowls at him.
"He was nice," she says grumpily. "I really liked him."
"He was dull," Loki sighs. "And he would have been a dreadfully tedious bedfellow."
Natasha rolls her eyes, not rising to his taunts. He knows nothing about Sean, will never know anything about him. Just because he's a normal guy with a normal job and has never murdered anybody it doesn't mean that he's boring. In fact, murder and super powers are boring to Natasha because they're her everyday. Normal people however, they're a special treat.
"Still, at least you know for the future. I'll be happy to…assist you."
Natasha's lip curls. "In your dreams."
"A couple of times, yes," Loki says with a smirk, sliding his chair backwards and standing up. "And your irascible nature makes it all the more satisfying when you say my name."
She balls her fists, knuckles straining under the skin, and reminds herself that it would be completely impractical to murder him here, that secretly disposing of a body in the middle of the city that never sleeps is nigh on impossible, even for someone of her experience. From the corner of her eye, she sees him sink onto the sofa, stretching his long, thin frame across it, and a few seconds later, she hears the shrill voice of yet another talk show host, blathering on about how fucked up today's guests are.
She can't sit here and listen to this, and so she retreats to her bedroom, curling up under her duvet and wishing the rest of the weekend away.
On Monday, she leaves the apartment as early as possible. She stops on her way to work to grab a coffee and a croissant, and opts to sit in, browsing through the papers until the clock on the wall ticks over to eight-thirty, and she decides it won't be suspiciously early if she heads to HQ now. When she arrives, she goes straight for R&D, craving some normal company, and the lift takes her down to the lower levels that Tony and Bruce have turned into their own manic laboratory. She is surprised to see Jane with the two of them, and she gives Natasha a friendly wave, before there is a loud blast of energy that crackles through the air, causing everybody to duck. It's only when Natasha straightens up, her heart thudding in her chest, that she realises that's she's pulled her gun out of her holster and flicked the safety off. Tony glances down at it, then back up at her face and raises one eyebrow, as Bruce scribbles down some observations in his notebook.
"Natasha, how good to see you."
She turns at the greeting, and her blood runs cold when she sees Thor, towering over her, broad smile on his face. All she can think about is the fact that his supposedly dead brother is still most likely fast asleep on her couch, and she's certain that Thor will be able to tell as much from a single glance at her.
"Hey," she says, forcing out a smile as she holsters her gun once more. "You're looking well. Life on Earth suiting you?"
"I'm getting used to it," he replies, sipping his coffee and nodding his approval at it. "You people have a great deal of things that Asgard is lacking."
"Tell me about it," Natasha mumbles, and she heads towards a small cluster of armchairs, sinking down into one of them as Thor takes a seat next to her. He is remarkably well adjusted, for an alien prince. Jane probably has a hell of a lot to do with that, but he seems completely at ease with the way things work on their world. He's even taken to wearing normal clothes, and Natasha still finds it kind of strange, far more used to him being clad in leather and metal as opposed to jeans and flannel shirts. Her mind jumps to Loki again, and how she is contradictorily more accustomed to seeing him in his jeans and faded t-shirts, that he would look strange if he were to revert back to his old self, with his horned helmet and his long leather coat. She prefers him as he is now, if she's being honest, though, she supposes, she shouldn't really be preferring any version of him at all, unless it's the version that's two billion lightyears away from her, but he's yet to try that one out unfortunately.
Thor smiles as he watches Jane, rapidly pressing buttons and flicking switches on various machines, completely immersed in her work. He lets out a heavy sigh and looks down at his coffee cup, his index finger tracing the porcelain rim.
"What's up?"
Thor smiles sadly and hesitates before answering, as though he can't settle on the exact words he wants to use. "I wish she and Mother had gotten to know each other better. I'm sure they would have been very fond of each other."
"Well there's nothing stopping you from taking her back to Asgard, is there?" Natasha says, glancing towards Jane. "I mean, don't you ever visit your family?"
Thor is silent for a moment, then murmurs, "There's only Father left now."
"I'm sorry?" Natasha breathes. Of course she had known that Loki was, for all intents and purposes, dead, but from the sounds of things, Loki's not the only one Thor has lost.
"My mother was murdered when the Dark Elves attacked our kingdom, by the same beast who killed Loki…" He trails off, his long blond hair hiding his face from view, and Natasha hears him sniff heavily. She reaches out, placing her hand on his large forearm, and squeezes it gently.
"I'm so sorry," she says, guilt swirling around inside of her. How could she have been so stupid? How could she just blunder into that emotional minefield without any care as though she were a senseless fool? "I had no idea…"
"Loki managed to destroy the monster before he died, but I wonder if his vengeance was really worth the price," Thor says croakily. "He loved Mother. He was destroyed by her loss…we all were, or course, but…she was the only one who ever really understood him. She always knew what to say to calm him…I sometimes wonder if she'd been there, on the bifrost, if it had been her instead of my father…"
Thor trails off again, breathing deeply, and he raises one hand to his face, wiping it roughly.
"What must you think of me?" he says, looking up at her, his blue eyes a little bloodshot, and somehow, much less bright than Natasha is used to.
"Don't ever be ashamed for giving a damn about your family," Natasha tells him. "Everybody here has lost people in terrible ways, they understand. They won't judge you."
"You are far kinder than you let on, Natasha," Thor says with a brief smile, and he places his rough heavy hand on top of hers, giving it a gentle pat.
"Well, just because I"m an asshole ninety-nine percent of the time…" she says with a shrug.
"I didn't mean that," Thor says quickly, a slight blush presenting itself in his cheeks.
"I know," she replies, smiling softly. "I was just playing."
Thor smiles back, but his expression slowly fades into sadness. "I suppose I can take comfort in the knowledge that they are together. That maybe, in the afterlife, he has gained some perspective, and realised that we all loved him, all of us, even my father, though he did not show it well."
Natasha doesn't say anything, unable to bring herself to lie to him. She can't agree with him, or feed that fantasy, when Loki's supposed afterlife mostly consists of running up her electricity bill and the pizza guys thinking she's suddenly got the appetite of a whale.
"I'm sure he always knew," she says at last, because that isn't a lie. She is positive that deep down he knows that Thor, even if not Odin, only ever wanted the best for him. She is also certain, that that's part of the reason why Loki has come to Earth, of all places, to wile away his days until he can return to Asgard. He wants to keep an eye on Thor, proven by the fact that he was so clued up on Thor's time spent with Jane. Perhaps the self-obsessed part of him (which is admittedly, quite a lot of him) is desperate to see Thor grieve for him, to validate his existence in the first place. Whatever the reason, Natasha knows one thing for certain - he's even more fucking tragic than she ever expected.
His skin is damp with sweat, and she buries her face in his neck, her teeth clamping down on her lower lip, a vain effort to prevent herself from making a sound. She can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, and when she digs her fingernails into his shoulders, he groans, and she can feel the vibrations in his throat. She lets out a breathy sigh, content in the knowledge that she's still winning, but when he finds her lips, his fingers grasping her hips even harder, she can't help the moan that escapes her. She drops one hand to the bed covers, gripping them tightly in her fist, and she wraps her legs around his hips, her toes curling in ecstasy.
He breaks the kiss, and she has only a moment to be disappointed before she feels his lips on her throat, her skin burning from every single touch. He nips hard at her neck and she cries out, but he smiles against her and all she really wants is for him to do it again.
"Say my name," he murmurs into her ear, one hand leaving her hips (where she is sure there will be bruises in the morning) and moving to cup her breast, massaging it gently, his hands soft.
"No," she says, raising her hand to his hair, tangling her fingers in it before she pulls, hard. He hisses, then grabs her by the wrists, and pins her hands to the headboard.
"Why not?" he breathes, his rhythm diminishing until his strokes are shallow, slow, and torturous. She bites her lip, tilting her chin up and exposing her neck, but his lips don't make contact with her, despite the close proximity.
"Because I'm not going to beg you," she says defiantly.
"Really?" he asks, pulling away from her just enough so that she can see him arch one eyebrow. He releases her wrists, his hands finding her hips and raising them slightly, fractionally changing the angle. She closes her eyes, biting down hard on her lip as she uses every ounce of effort to not give in to him. He continues at his slow, lazy pace, and she can feel his eyes on her, scrutinising her every reaction, and so she throws her forearm over her face so she if she ever does open her eyes, she doesn't have to see his smug grin. It's only a few seconds before she snaps.
"For fuck's sake Loki!"
He lets out a low laugh of victory, then presses his lips sweetly against her jaw, goosebumps spreading over her skin at the contact.
"Again."
"You're an egotistical asshole, Loki."
Apparently he approves, because he grips her wrists once more, fingers digging deep into her flesh as he speeds up. Natasha's breath catches in her throat, her mind clouding as she draws close, and when he demands that she say his name again, she doesn't question it, doesn't even wrap it up in an insult. It only comes out as a soft moan.
"Loki…"
"Yes?"
Natasha wakes with a start, her heart pounding, her skin covered in goosebumps. Loki is sitting up in bed next to her, watching her curiously, his eyebrows drawn together. An open paperback is resting against his stomach, his thumb tucked inside it, holding his page.
"What are you doing in here? I told you to sleep on the couch," she says sharply. She's doesn't know what the hell's going on, but she's unsettled. She rarely dreams, and when she does it's usually a nightmare. She supposes that could technically count as one, but all the same, it was so vivid. Her wrists still feel sore from where he had been grasping them, and she looks down at her arms, searching for any marks on the pale skin that might suggest that he's laid a finger on her. There's nothing.
"What's the matter?" he asks, ignoring her comment about sleeping on the couch. He puts his book to one side and leans forward so he can get a good look at her. "Natasha?"
"Get out."
"Oh come on, I've barely slept, I can't stay on that blasted thing for another second."
"Not my problem, get out," she says, then gives him a shove. When her skin touches his, she is forcibly reminded of the smell of him, of his shoulder blades, smooth, and slick with sweat. Her breath hitches, and she pulls her hands away, folding her arms protectively over herself and wriggling under the duvet.
"What's the matter with you?" he asks sulkily, grudgingly pushing the covers away and getting out of bed. "You're acting as though - "
"As though what?" Natasha demands, narrowing her eyes at him. It's hard to think clearly when her pulse is working at double speed, the dream still filtering through her brain, interrupting all her coherent thoughts with hazy non-memories. She suppresses a shudder, though she doesn't know if it's of dread or due to the flashback of him and his mouth and his hands and his everything. She closes her eyes, trying to imagine a clear, blank space, but as soon as she opens them and sees him standing there, the muscles in his back flexing as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, she knows she's doomed.
"I don't know," he says at last, picking up his book and tucking it under his arm. "But you woke up and you're angry with me."
"I'm always angry with you."
"Angrier," he concedes. "Which is fine, but I'd like to know what I've done."
"Can you just go?"
"Fine," he says, heading for the door, but when he reaches it, he pauses, his fingers lingering on the handle. "One question though."
"What?"
"Why did you say my name?"
She feels like she's going to be sick. When she doesn't answer, he smirks and leaves the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. It only takes a moment for Natasha to lose her patience and get out of bed, wrapping her blanket roughly around her shoulders before she follows him into the lounge.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Well," Loki says slowly, spinning on the spot to face her. "You dreamt about me naked and now you're panicking about it. That's what's going on."
"I didn't dream about you," Natasha snaps. "I never - "
"Oh don't lie," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "There's no shame in it. You're clearly attracted to me but you have this whole 'over my dead body' view on it, so your unconscious mind lets you live out the fantasy while you sleep, meaning that the conscious you doesn't have to worry about any…urges."
Natasha closes her eyes. She doesn't like the way his lips lingered on that last word, nor the smile that had spread across them afterwards.
"What makes you so certain that - "
"You said my name," he says smugly, and when Natasha opens her eyes, she sees that his are glinting with delight. "Well, it was less you saying it and more you moaning it, but let's not split hairs over the subject. It was most enlightening, whichever way you look at it."
"No." Natasha shakes her head, trying to come up with some excuse, some alternative so she can save face, and walk away from this conversation with a hint of pride left in tact. "No, you're just - "
"I'm not judging you," Loki tells her, though it's difficult to believe him when he has such a smug grin painted across his lips. "I'm sure I'll be dreaming of you tonight, after that wonderful nugget of inspiration you've gifted me with."
"Don't be so vulgar," Natasha says, turning away from him and heading back towards the bedroom. She's not going to get anywhere in this argument, and the sense of paranoia in her stomach is lessening, replaced instead with that squirming feeling of shame and embarrassment.
"It must have been good," Loki calls after her.
"Must it?" Natasha asks sarcastically, glancing over her shoulder to him.
"Oh yes," he says, crossing the room in a couple of strides, stopping just a few inches away from her. "It must have been, otherwise you wouldn't be reacting like this. You wouldn't be all het up, and you certainly - " he lowers his lips to her ear, his hands resting on her upper arms, thumbs gliding over her shoulder blades. Even through the blanket she has to fight to keep her shiver at bay. " - wouldn't have said my name."
Her mind flashes up visions of him, his dark hair damp with sweat, clinging to his skin as he murmurs into her ear, but Natasha snaps out of it, alarmed by how easily the dream resurfaces.
"Have you been screwing around with my head?"
He steps away from her. "No." He sounds almost offended, which is pretty ridiculous, given his track record on such things. "You'd know if I had."
"Oh really?"
Her anger vanishes, and her surroundings seem fluid, as though she's trapped in a goldfish bowl, the water distorting her view. The distant sounds of the night time traffic have faded to nothing, and she finds herself at a loss for what to do, and so she simply stands there, awaiting directions.
"Natasha…" The voice is clear, the only clear thing there is. She clings to it, wanting it to speak again.
"Yes?"
"Say my name." The voice is soft, kind, convincing, and so she complies, because what else can she do?
"Loki."
"And again?"
"Loki."
The voice hums its approval. "Lovely. I shall hang on to those."
Without warning, she is thrust back into the real world, car horns blaring on the street below, the floor solid under her feet once more. She feels dizzy, uncertain of everything, even though she knows that her head is her own once more.
"You see?" he says. "That's what it's like when I screw around with your head. Now stop blaming me for your fantasies."
"How do I know you're not gonna do that to me again?" Natasha demands, ignoring his last comment. She'd stopped worrying about him misbehaving in such ways once it became apparent that all he was going to do all day was stare at the god damn TV, but now he's proved that that weapon is still in his arsenal, that's he's happy to whip it out for a demonstration without so much as a warning, she is horribly reawakened to the very real danger of harbouring an alien war criminal.
"Because I know that if I do, when I eventually release you, you'll break my neck. And apart from that," he adds, frowning down at her. "It's really quite rude."
"Really quite rude…" she breathes. "You didn't think it was really quite rude when you did that to Clint?"
Loki shrugs. "I was preoccupied with invading your planet at the time. He was of little concern."
Natasha considers breaking his neck right now, mostly on Clint's behalf, but she doesn't deny that she'll go to bed feeling a little better knowing he's sprawled lifeless across her living room floor.
"And I suppose you didn't consider invading the planet to be rude either?" she snaps. She doesn't know why she's arguing with him about the past. It's not going to change, nor is it going to go away, but she's desperate to get the upper hand on something in this conversation, even if she has to revert back to that old comeback.
"Admittedly it was a bit rude," he says, though it's plain to see that he doesn't give a damn about rudeness or his attempt at subjugating the entire human race.
"I'm going back to bed," Natasha says, walking away from him and pushing open her bedroom door. She can't bear to look at him for another moment, and she needs to get rid of this stupid dream from her head before it drives her insane.
"Sweet dreams," he calls after her.
"Fuck you." She regrets her choice of words immediately, closing the door and sinking against it, letting out a frustrated sigh. Through the wood, she hears his reply loud and clear, and can actually see his sly grin in her mind's eye.
"Well you know where I am…"
She's had too much pizza lately. Too much fast food in general. She's come to the conclusion that all the additives and hydrogenated fats have addled her brain, and so she's fixing it. No more pizza, and no more creepy dreams. Hopefully.
She places the steaks in the frying pan, and the meat sizzles, fat spitting into the air. She glances over at the potatoes, boiling away on the back burner. She has no idea if they're done or not, but she needs to focus her attention on the steaks. She doesn't like them well done, and she does suppose His Royal Highness does either.
"Need any help?"
The request doesn't surprise her. His smugness didn't last for too long, and was all but forgotten by the previous evening. He has returned to his usual subdued self, though he has apparently given up on the TV and moved on to her very sparse collection of paperbacks. It turns out that he's most unimpressed with the idea of TV repeats, and has decided he cannot trust it at all anymore.
"Yeah," she says, releasing the handle of the frying pan. "Look after the steaks."
He nods and moves forward, taking the metal tongs from her before he turns the steaks over and gives them each a prod. Natasha reaches past him to take the potatoes off of the hob, her spare hand finding its way to the dial and turning it off, the blue flames disappearing instantaneously. She drains the water into the sink then sets about preparing the salad, and soon enough both the potatoes and the salad are on the plates, and the only thing she's waiting for is the steaks.
"Are they done?" she asks, dumping the chopping board and knife into the sink with a clatter. He doesn't reply and she frowns, turning to look at him. He's staring at the tiled splashbacks on the wall, completely zoned out. She gently pokes him in the side and he flinches, coming back to reality with a snap.
"What?" he says, turning to look at her, his eyes wide.
"You okay?" she asks tentatively.
"Fine," he says, his shoulders stiff as he returns his attention to the steaks. "I think these are done." He places one on each plate, and Natasha grabs some cutlery from the drawer and leads the way over to the table, Loki following behind with the food.
"What were you thinking about?"
"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, taking a seat and staring down at his plate glumly. She wonders if he's lost his appetite, but after a moment he picks up his knife and fork and slowly begins to make his way through the steak, chewing tiredly, as though he has long since forgotten how to eat. His mind is far away, and so the rest of the meal passes in silence. He frequently stops eating, wearily rubs his face, then continues on, as though nothing is the matter, until finally he finishes, pushing his plate away and leaning back in his chair. He blinks a few times, and his eyes seem to focus, as though he's only just remembered she's there. Natasha sets down her fork, looking across at Loki. He frowns at her as he sips his water, and once he's placed his glass back on the table, he shrugs his shoulders questioningly.
"What?"
Natasha shakes her head. She doesn't want to bring it up, not over dinner. It doesn't feel like the right time. She doesn't suppose there'll ever be a right time, however, but she still doesn't say anything. She's been making a note of every single one of his actions, wondering how she could have been so stupid before. Since their argument over the dream abated, his grief has been apparent in everything he does, and she was a fool not to have seen it before now. His facade is set very firmly in place, of course it is, because he's well practiced at lying, but not even he can hide something that cuts that deep, not for twenty four hours a day.
"I'm gonna wash up," she says, standing up and taking the plates, balancing them one on top of the other before heading for the kitchen. She turns on the taps, and squirts some washing up liquid into the bowl, then waits patiently for it to fill. As soon as there's a decent amount of water, she shuts off the taps and begins to quickly wash the plates, slinging them rather unceremoniously in the drying rack. She doesn't like this newfound knowledge that she has of him, of his family. It makes her feel all the worse for pushing him out into the city when he clearly wasn't ready. She feels like she needs to tread carefully around him now, because despite everything he's done, and despite how angry she is with him over his pigheaded way of handling the Sean situation, and over the dream (which technically isn't even his fault) he is grieving for his mother, and worse than that, he's doing it alone.
She doesn't hear him come in, and so she jumps when he picks up one of the plates and starts to dry it with a tea towel, before he carefully places it back in the cupboard. He picks up the next one, wiping the towel slowly across it, and leans against the counter, as Natasha starts tackling the frying pan with the rough side of the sponge.
"I'm sorry about the mortal," he says carefully. Natasha stops what she's doing and turns to look at him. He's staring down at the plate, wiping the same dry spot over and over. She suspects he may have been meaning to say this for some time, that the argument over the stupid dream got in the way, like it has with so many things.
"Yeah?" she says, returning her attention to the pan in the sink. She scrubs hard at something dark stuck to the shiny steel bottom, and eventually it comes loose, and floats away in the bubbly water.
"Well, I'm not sorry because quite frankly you can do better," he says, sounding far more like his old self as he places the plate on top of the pile in the cupboard.
"Okay," Natasha says, shaking her head. Of course, an apology would have been too much to expect from him.
"I'm sorry I upset you though," he says, his voice soft once more. "That wasn't my intention."
"Right."
"I mean it," he says, taking a handful of cutlery and wrapping it up in the towel. It clatters together as he dries it, and he chews on his lip, looking down at the floor. "As funny as it is when you're angry, you being upset holds no entertainment value for me."
Natasha shakes her head again, wondering who the hell taught him to apologise, if anybody at all. He's making a complete hash of it, and she would have expected better from a prince. Don't they have etiquette classes? Finishing school? Surely something to ensure they don't end up being a social bonehead.
"I don't like it when women are upset over something I've done…or said…"
Natasha frowns. "You make a habit of upsetting women?"
"Try not to," he replies, carefully placing each piece of cutlery into the appropriate section in the drawer. "Somehow always do though. The men usually have it coming. The women…tend to be bystanders."
"You know you probably upset an awful lot of women when you attacked New York…and Stuttgart. Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, of people you killed."
"And you think I'm proud of all that?" he asks, slamming the drawer shut and turning to face her. "Of that catastrophe? If you're going to do something wrong, I'm a firm believer in doing it right, and that was a mess. From start to finish the whole thing was just…it doesn't matter anyway. It's over now."
Natasha dunks a cloth into the water, then wrings out the excess and begins to wipe down the counter tops while Loki finishes drying. She knows that she has to say something, because otherwise, she's never going to say it, but she just can't find a way to broach the subject. She's never been good at dealing with emotions, she's always left that up to other people, but Loki doesn't have anyone else. He only has her, whether she likes it or not.
"I saw Thor today," she says, turning her head to gauge his reaction. He frowns, his hands pausing as he starts drying the frying pan, a few drips of water falling off of it and splashing onto the floor tiles.
"He's in New York?" Loki asks slowly, not looking at her. He carefully wipes the towel around the outer edge of the pan, though Natasha knows his mind is about as far from the washing up as it's possible to be.
"Yeah," she replies. "Jane's been doing some work with Tony and Bruce. I guess he came along for the ride."
"Right," Loki says, and he seems deflated, as though he's upset that Thor is existing in the same space as him, that he's living his life without him and he's not falling to pieces. He's probably taking it personally that Thor has managed to soldier on, despite losing half his family in the space of three days.
"I'm sorry about your mom by the way," Natasha says gently. She turns around and leans against the counter, damp cloth hanging limply from her hand, and sees Loki's fingers give an involuntary twitch. "I had no idea…"
"Why would you?" Loki says, turning away from her and roughly opening one of the lower cupboards, throwing the pan inside and kicking the door shut with his heel. "It's none of your business, after all."
"I know," she says. "I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry."
He doesn't say another word, but turns swiftly around and strides out of the kitchen. Natasha tosses the dish cloth back into the sink where it lands with a splash and follows him into the lounge, where he is pulling on his jacket.
"Going somewhere?"
"Out," he says sharply. He is about to turn away but Natasha catches him by the arm, then reaches past him to grab her purse.
"Here," she says, unzipping it and digging out a handful of bills. "Take this."
He frowns at her, but doesn't take the money. "Why?"
"Because I don't want you to steal or cheat anybody or any of that shit. If you're going out, fine, but don't break the law."
"Right," he says, taking the money from her and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He turns away from her again, and this time she doesn't try to hold him back.
"You don't have to go out if you don't want to," she says, following him down the corridor. "I mean, if you want to, that's fine, but if you just wanna get drunk or something there's plenty of vodka here."
"No I want to go out," he says, shaking his head. He leans back against the wall and presses his hands to his face, inhaling deeply before he makes his mind up, reaching out and snatching at the door handle. She doesn't know why she follows him outside, probably because she fears for whatever carnage will be inflicted on the city thanks to his emotional instability, and as he hammers the button for the elevator, she leans against the door frame, arms folded, watching him sadly.
"From what your brother said, she loved you very much."
"Shut up."
"Why?"
"Just shut up," Loki says, his eyes meeting hers. She expects his expression to be angry, furious even, but it's not. Not even close. It's completely broken and he's only just managing to hold himself together.
"But it's important for you to realise that!" Natasha protests. "What's so terrible about your mother loving you, even after everything you did?"
"Because of what I did!" he yells, and Natasha hears a glass smash in the apartment across from hers, followed by silence. "You don't understand."
"Don't understand what? What don't I understand?"
There is a soft ding, and the elevator doors slide open, bathing Loki in a horrible, artificial, yellow light.
"It was my fault," he whispers, his eyes bright. "It was all my fault."
He steps into the elevator and whacks the button for the ground floor, the doors closing obediently. Across the hall, Natasha hears the muffled sounds of conversation start up again, and she lets out a sigh, stepping back inside her apartment and closing the door.