A/N: A day late, but it's really rather long and I'm actually very fond of this chapter. Hope you guys like it too. :)
The Interloper
by Flaignhan
When she wakes, she's alone. Even though she shouldn't be surprised, she still finds herself letting out a sigh of concern at the empty space next to her in the bed. She gets up and heads into the lounge, but he's not there either. The sofa is empty, the TV is off, and everything is exactly as it was when she went to bed last night. She bites her lip as she looks around, then pads over to the window, staring down at the street below, her arms folded over her stomach. She shouldn't be worried about him. Really, he's an adult, more than that, he's a god, he can take care of himself. And apart from all that, he's not her responsibility, he has never been her responsibility and he's not even her friend. She doesn't have any obligation to have any concern over his welfare at all, because actually, when she thinks about it, he's the asshole who tried to kill her and her friends, take over the city, and then broke into her apartment and never damn well left.
Until last night, that is. Surely she should be rejoicing?
Except she isn't. The look on his face when he said those last words to her before he ducked into the elevator is etched onto her brain. She was awake half the night running it over in her mind. If it had really been Loki's fault, Thor would have mentioned it, wouldn't he? Or maybe he didn't because he didn't want to blame his dead brother? Or maybe he just doesn't know? There is a huge possibility that Loki is over thinking things, that it's survivor's guilt that he is plagued with, a sense of should have, would have, could have, rather than any real responsibility for his mother's death.
Somehow though, she doesn't think things are that simple, even though she wishes they were.
She moves away from the window and goes to make some breakfast, even though she doesn't really feel like eating at all. When the caffeine from her coffee hits her, it only increases her agitation, and at every single little sound from the apartments around her, she finds herself whipping her head in the direction of the door, almost breaking her neck as she tries to see whether he has come home at last.
She lingers on her cereal, still hoping that he'll walk through the door and that they'll have a brief, terse exchange, and she can go about her day as normal with no burdens of emotionally unstable norse gods on her shoulders. She knows it's a lot to ask, but she would appreciate it nonetheless. She takes her time in the bathroom, standing under the shower head and allowing the water to saturate her as she listens out for any signs of him. She tells herself that she left the bathroom door ajar by accident, but deep down she knows it's so she can hear better. It's sad, and she knows she shouldn't be feeling like this, but no matter how hard she tries to shake off her guilt and her worry, it only clings to her with greater permanency, refusing to shift or falter.
He's still not back when she gets out the shower, and it's not until she's dressed and on the brink of leaving for work, with the plan of writing her cell number down for him and instructing him to call her when he gets in, that the front door opens. He steps inside, his boots scuffing against the floor, and he closes the door quietly behind him. Natasha heads over to him, and one quick glance over him tells her everything she needs to know. He has dark circles under his glazed eyes, and there is a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His movements are sluggish, tired, and he might as well have the word hangover written on his shirt in permanent marker.
"You okay?" she asks, determined to keep things civil. Any hint of aggression from her and he might just storm off into the city again, and who knows what snap decisions he might make out of spite when he's still half cut.
He nods tiredly and runs a hand through his hair. It's now that Natasha spots a dark purple bruise on his neck and she frowns, folding her arms.
"You have a good night?"
He nods again, unable to stifle the yawn that swells in his chest, and he stretches his arms, glancing down at her boredly. "Well, it was mediocre," he says with a shrug.
"Right."
"I'm going to bed," he says, stepping forwards. "Oh," he pauses, digging his hand in the pocket of his jacket. "Here," he says, pulling out a handful of crumpled bills and a few coins. "Some of that's left over from the other night too."
Natasha doesn't take it. "You can hang onto it," she tells him. "It's fine. Use it next time."
"Oh," he says, frowning down at the money. He seems to sober up a little at this, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "Really?"
"Yeah," she says, and she unfolds her arms, trying to rid herself of the horrible stiffness that has taken over her body, leaving her feeling rigid and wooden and not at all human. "It's fine. If you ever want some money you can just ask, you know. I get paid well for what I do and I don't really…I don't spend a lot of it, it's just sitting there so…" She trails off, not wanting to sound too generous, but at the same time not wanting to seem like she's trying to get him out of the apartment more often. All she really wants right now is what's best for him, because she knows that the chances are, what's best for him is what's best for the city. A happy, emotionally stable Loki won't go around trying to subjugate the citizens. At least, that's what she hopes.
"Thanks," he says softly, blinking a couple of times before he shoves the money back in his pocket. "I'm going to bed. Did I mention that? I'm going to bed."
She smiles and looks up at him, and she can tell that he's only just managing to focus his eyes on her. His reactions are slow, sleepy, and she's not surprised that he wants to go to bed, but when he stumbles past her and she is overwhelmed with the stench coming from him.
"Whoa, hang on a second, you're not going to bed."
"But I'm tired," he whines, turning around and slumping against the wall, his feet shuffling to try and keep him upright. He slaps a hand against the wall and straightens himself up, his movements unsteady.
"Yeah, and you stink," she tells him. "You're not sleeping in my bed if you smell like that. Go take a shower, then you can go to bed."
"I don't smell," he replies, clearly taking offence as he steps back towards her. "You smell."
Natasha takes a tentative sniff then pulls away from him. "Yeah you do," she tells him. "You smell of whiskey and," she sniffs again and catches a rough, smokey tinge, "cigarettes and," again she sniffs, this time picking up on a sickeningly sweet floral scent, "cheap perfume and," she takes one last sniff, pulls a face, backing even further away from him, "sex."
He grins at her final conclusion, but when Natasha doesn't share in his amusement, he rolls his eyes. "Fine, I'll have a shower," he says exasperatedly, and he staggers towards the bathroom.
"Good idea," Natasha says. "And try not to throw up in my bed."
"I'm not gonna throw up," he tells her, sounding all too much like a spoiled teenager. He slams the bathroom door and after a couple of bangs and crashes, Natasha hears the sound of water flowing, and she decides it's probably time for her to go to work. Unfortunately, she discovers exactly why Loki was so adamant he wasn't going to throw up when she reaches the street. She steps carefully over the puddle of vomit just outside the entrance to her apartment block, then heads for the subway, her stress levels significantly less than they were when she woke up.
Her day passes without much incident. She trains with Clint for a little while in the gym, though she tires quickly after her sleepless night, and Clint can never quite get the adrenalin rush from her that a real life or death situation can. She feels better for it however, and those final, niggling feelings of anxiety at the back of her mind are eked out by every blow she lands on Clint while they spar. She probably needs to go back to daily training, even if for no other reason than sheer stress relief.
As she's leaving the building that evening and contemplating whether Loki might need some aspirin, which then leads her to wonder whether gods can even take aspirin, she runs into Bruce. After exchanging pleasantries and asking Bruce how his latest science endeavours are coming along, she tries to make a quick exit, wanting to get home and make sure her apartment hasn't been flooded or vomited on. Bruce seems to have other plans, however.
"Hey, you uh, you wanna grab a drink or something?" he asks, his hands shoved in his pockets as he awaits her response with a hopeful expression.
"A drink?"
"Yeah, or two or three," he says with a shrug and a smile. "I just, well, it's not my place to say, but you've seemed a little…different lately. I just thought you might like to go out and chill or something."
"Uh…" she stumbles over her answer, then remembers that awkward situation where Bruce showed up at her apartment with some special super science healing gloves and she pretty much slammed the door in his face. "Yeah," she says. "Okay, sounds good."
They head out into the street and walk a decent distance before Bruce leads her down a quiet side street to a small bar next to an independent movie theatre, its doors propped open with bar stools.
"It's pretty relaxed in here," he tells her. "Good place to unwind."
She bites her lip, wondering who else has noticed change in her behaviour, but once they get inside she forgets all about work. The lighting is low, the wood dark, and there is a sweet, slightly tangy aroma of beer soaked tables which is strangely pleasant. They take a seat at the bar, and the tattooed bartender greets them with a friendly smile, responding quickly to their order so that no less than thirty seconds later, Natasha has a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and Bruce has an ice cold bottle of beer.
After a while, (and a refill of wine) she loosens up a little, laughing and joking with Bruce as he tells her about one of Tony's more explosive disasters in the lab. She wonders whether she should have pursued a science career, or if she could retrain courtesy of the SHIELD budget. It sounds like much more fun down in the labs, and despite the frequent explosions and carnage, she'd probably be at a much lower risk of being killed on the job.
Her heart stops when she sees him from the corner of her eye, and she does a double take, just to make sure it's him walking through the doors. Subtlety is thrown out of the window and she wants to crawl into the bottom of her wine glass and drown herself, but the best she can do is scoot her stool closer to the bar, glug down a large amount of her drink and try her hardest to hide her face.
"What's up?" Bruce asks, glancing over to Sean curiously.
"Can you not stare?" she hisses, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She feels sick, wine swirling around in her stomach, and she wants to dash to the bathroom and throw up, but she knows that he'll definitely see her then, and he'll definitely see her running away. She wants to try and play it cool (though she knows she has blundered her way through things so far) and running away is the exact opposite of cool, so she stays firmly and miserably planted to her stool, her leg jogging anxiously.
"Why? Who is he?"
Natasha jabs him in the shin with the toe of her shoe and he inhales sharply, recoiling from her. She does manage to accomplish her most important goal - he is no longer looking at Sean, but she is concerned that his reaction may have attracted some attention. She sips her wine quietly, her heart pounding in her chest, her guts squirming unpleasantly as she feels the heat rise in her skin.
"Can I get a beer, and a vodka and cranberry, please?"
She shifts even closer to Bruce, who is frowning at her, completely bemused by her behaviour, while the barman tends to Sean's order, glasses clinking, fridge doors opening and closing.
"What are you even trying to achieve?" he asks in a low voice. Natasha ignores him and glances up to the mirror behind the bar. Her lungs freeze, breath caught in her throat, when she realises that Sean is looking right at her.
"Hey," he says plainly.
"Hey," she says, realising now how stupid she must look, that he obviously saw her as soon as he walked through the door, and as such saw all of her stupid behaviour as she pathetically tried to avoid being seen.
"How are you?" he asks stiffly, not turning towards her but instead continuing the conversation via the mirror, frequently glancing down to his wallet as he runs his thumbnail along the edge of one of his credit cards.
"I'm okay."
"Good…" he says distractedly, and then he frowns at the mirror as the doors open behind them. He turns as a tall, slender, blonde woman with a perfect, pearly white smile and lightly tanned skin strides in.
"Hey baby," she says shyly, planting a kiss on Sean's cheek. He has the good grace to look a little uncomfortable, but Natasha's stomach turns over at the sight, her skin tingling with humiliation. She wonders how he could have moved on so soon, and she can't tear her eyes away from his hand, lingering on this new girl's waist.
"Hey," he says, kissing the top of her head as she leans against him, arms wrapped around his middle.
"Who's your friend?" she asks curiously, looking up at him, her stupid, irritatingly perfect smile dazzling in the low light of the bar.
"Oh…" Sean says, running a hand through his hair and ruffling it anxiously. "This is…Francesca." The name comes out far more coldly than necessary, but Natasha doesn't get to dwell on that for long because she hears a snigger come from behind her. Sean must have heard it too, because his eyes flick over to where Bruce is sitting, and before she can even think the idea through, Natasha swipes her arm backwards across the bar, knocking Bruce's beer into his lap.
"Shit Nat, what the - "
"I am so sorry," she says, jumping up and turning to face him, giving him a harsh look that quite plainly says that he's not to utter another word if he wants to make it out of this bar alive. "Maybe you should go to the restroom and clean yourself up?"
Bruce stares at her for a good long moment, and for a second, she thinks she sees a hint of the other guy somewhere in there, but it passes so quickly that she thinks she may have imagined it, and he straightens up, shaking the excess beer from his hands.
"Yeah," he says, "I'll go clean up."
He disappears, and as soon as the door closes, Natasha turns back to Sean, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. It's hardly her finest moment after all, and right now, he must be glad that he's rid of her. Who is she kidding? Of course he's glad he's rid of her, because he's hooked up with a girl that looks like a god damn supermodel. There's bouncing back and then there's bouncing back.
"He knows your real name, doesn't he?" Sean sighs, looking down at the ground while his new girlfriend sips quietly on her drink, watching Natasha closely.
"We work together," Natasha says with a shrug.
"You don't need to explain anything to me," Sean says quickly. "I'm sure you have your reasons…Nat…"
"Have I seen you somewhere before?"
"I'm sorry?" Natasha says, looking up to Sean's new girlfriend, who is nearly as tall as he is. Granted she has the help of a killer pair of heels, but she'd still tower over Natasha without them.
"I'm pretty sure I've seen you before…" she says, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
"I'm pretty sure you haven't," Natasha says quietly, sitting back down on her stool and picking up her wine glass. She takes a sip, noticing that it's getting low, and prays that it will be enough to see her through the rest of this hellish conversation.
"No but I have," she persists. "Because I remember your hair, because it's such an unusual shade and it looks absolutely beautiful on you by the way," she adds the last bit as an afterthought and continues to frown at Natasha, who simply shrugs at her. Eventually, she shakes her head, dropping the subject.
"Is it Natalie? Or Natasha? Or…"
She doesn't answer Sean, and she wonders if two people have ever said so much without listening to the other. It's like she's playing tennis singlehandedly against two opponents, but thankfully they're not olympic standard conversationalists, and she's able to follow both threads at once.
"You know what? It doesn't matter. We should probably be going anyway, we're going to catch a movie tonight and…" he trails off, and his girlfriend looks down at her half full glass and frowns.
"Oh, okay," she says, not bothering to hide her disappointment as she sets her glass down on the bar.
"See ya," Sean says, zipping up his jacket with one swift tug.
"Yeah, see ya," Natasha replies, turning away as he takes his girlfriend's hand in his and heads for the door. She watches their reflections in the mirror, and it's not until the doors swing shut behind them that Natasha breathes a sigh of relief, resting her head in her hands. She had not been prepared for that. She had thought, that out of the millions of people in this city, that she would have a fairly good chance of not running into him. She would have hoped at the very least that it would have been a few weeks, or even months, but no. And worse than that, it turns out that he apparently had a replacement waiting in the wings, with her stupid good looks and her stupid compliments about her hair and her stupid pleasant demeanour.
"You gonna tell me what that was all about?" Bruce asks, sinking onto his stool. Natasha looks across at him, then down at the dark stain on his thighs, and bites her lip sheepishly.
"I kind of…dated him," she tells him.
Bruce stares at her, and then his eyebrows draw into a confused frown. "What do you mean you dated him?" he asks.
"I mean," she says, trying her best to keep a grip on her patience. "I dated him."
"For real?"
"For real."
Bruce lets out a long low whistle and Natasha sighs, beckoning the bartender over and asking for another round. Thankfully, he obliges quickly, and Natasha has plenty of wine to help her forget her encounter with Sean. Bruce watches her as she drinks deeply, and when she finally sets her glass down, his face crumples into an expression of concern.
"That bad, huh?"
"Awful," she tells him.
"I dunno what to tell you," he says, shrugging his shoulders. He takes a sip of his beer and shakes his head. "I never thought you were the dating type to be honest."
"Well I'm not," Natasha replies with a heavy sigh. "But he was…nice. And normal. I just wanted to see what it was like to have a normal life…" She blinks and rests her head on her hand, trying to ignore the lump forming in her throat, but the more she tries to ignore it, the more hyper aware of it she is, and her eyes start to prickle at the edges.
"Normal life," Bruce says softly, being decent enough to turn on his stool and look out over the rest of the bar, instead of focusing too closely on her. "I've forgotten what one of those is like."
Natasha doesn't say anything. She simply runs her index finger along the stem of her wine glass, trying to think about something, anything other than Sean and his new girlfriend.
"It's been days," she says bleakly. "Like, not even a week."
"Rebound," Bruce tells her. "I know that doesn't help you out much, and it must be pretty raw, but don't…don't…" He trails off, clearly no good at offering break up advice. "She seems pretty high maintenance to me anyway," he says, apparently deciding that this will make Natasha feel a whole lot better.
"She's gorgeous," Natasha says miserably. She drains the last of her wine and sets her glass down more heavily than intended. "I'm gonna head home."
"You sure?" Bruce asks, though he has stood up already, his jacket in hand, as though he knows her answer. Natasha nods, and he doesn't even bother to finish the last of his beer, just pulls on his jacket and waits for her to do the same. He slings an arm around her shoulders as they head for the door, and Natasha leans against him, matching his slow pace and trying to think about anything other than what an awful evening she's had.
"Don't tell the others," she says abruptly, once they make it out onto the street. "I don't really want anybody to…"
"I know," he says softly, and she relaxes at this. The last thing she needs is Tony or Clint poking fun at her for trying to be normal, or worse, Fury doing his research on Sean and providing her with an entire file, filled with photographs of past girlfriends as well as his current one. The whole thing would be a testosterone fuelled mess, and something she'd much rather avoid.
They cross the street, and Natasha glances up at the sun, hanging low in the sky, and wonders how Loki's doing. He's probably still passed out in bed, given how awful he looked when he stumbled in this morning.
"You want me to walk you home or will you be okay?" Bruce asks, pausing when they reach the end of the street and looking down at her.
"I'll be okay," she tells him, slipping out from under his arm. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Call me if you need somebody to get drunk with," he tells her, a lopsided grin breaking onto his face. She lets her lips curve into a small smile and she bids him goodbye, then heads off in the opposite direction to him, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her steps quick and purposeful.
When she makes it back to her apartment block she's glad to see that the concierge has arranged for Loki's mess to be hosed away. She gives him a brief smile as she passes his desk, the elevator doors sliding open obediently as soon as she presses the button. She's surprised to see him lounged on the couch. She'd have thought he'd still be in bed, but he's sprawled out, the lamps on low, an open paperback resting on his chest, one arm slung over his eyes. He looks clean, at least, and he's changed his clothes. The bruise from his neck is gone, and she wishes she could vanish evidence as easily has he can. She'd love to vanish that whole sorry affair with Sean right out of her mind. She flips the switch for the overhead lights and Loki groans, drawing his knees up, his face contorting into an expression of displeasure.
"Was that really necessary?" he grumbles, reaching out for the nearest cushion and slapping it down onto his face, his arms locked over it, holding it in place.
"Yes," she says, dumping her bag and shrugging her jacket off before she goes and collapses next to him on the sofa. "You shouldn't still be hungover, it's eight o'clock in the evening."
"I'm not hungover," he retorts, wriggling up into a sitting position. He drops the cushion from his face, his eyes squinting in the bright lights as they try to focus. "I'm just…"
"Sensitive?"
"No," he says firmly. "Why are you so late home anyway?"
Natasha doesn't answer him, she simply crosses her legs and chews on her lower lip, wondering whether she ought to even be considering this conversation, let alone having it. He's a grown up, after all, and she shouldn't have to mother him, but at the same time, things are different on Earth, and he might not know that. If he's going to be going out and having a good time then he needs to be careful, he needs to look after himself, because Natasha has the horrible feeling that for the foreseeable future, his problems are going to be her problems, and frankly, she doesn't need any more complications in her life. She does feel a sense of responsibility, at the very least to educate, so he can act accordingly and deal with any fallout himself.
"You know if you go out and pick up girls…" she says slowly, staring ahead and banking on the alcohol flowing through her veins to spur her on to get through the conversation.
"Yes…" he says, his frown deepening as he eyes her suspiciously. "I'm not going to bring them back here, if that's what you're worried about. I don't think we need a repeat of the other night."
Natasha closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and ploughs on, trying to ignore the stabbing feeling in her gut at the mention of the catastrophe. "I don't know how things are on Asgard, or what you guys get up to, but…you have to be careful down here, you know? You don't want to end up with any…unpleasant surprises."
"Little Lokis, you mean?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, more than that," she says. "I mean yeah, but you know, there are diseases and stuff and I don't know how the hospitals would respond to you turning up, or whether you might get hit worse because you're different or…"
"Right…" he says, his frown returning. He starts picking at the seam on the leg of his jeans, and she knows he's caught on to what she's getting at, but she thinks she might have to spell it out. He is, after all, an alien.
"Just…" She stares up at the ceiling trying to find the right words, but it provides no inspiration for her at all.
"What?"
"Use a fucking condom, okay?" she says in a rush, hoping that the quicker she says it, the less embarrassing it will be.
"Oh my," Loki says, a smirk spreading its way across his lips. "You're giving me the talk? I'm over a thousand years old, and you're giving me the talk?"
"Well I don't know how things go down on Asgard!" Natasha exclaims in frustration. "I don't want you bringing all sorts of grossness into my apartment. Do what you wanna do, doesn't bother me, but make sure you're being responsible about it."
Loki buries his face in his hands. "I've been messing around on Midgard for longer than you've been alive," he says in a muffled voice. "You really do not need to educate me on such things."
"I - wait, really?"
"I have bedded my fair share of Midgardian girls in my time, yes," he says snippily, as though her assumption that he hadn't is highly offensive. "They don't expect you to marry them and…well, on Asgard, when you're second in line to the throne you tend to get the dregs."
"Right," Natasha says. "So you come to Earth so you can get first pick?"
Loki shrugs. "The women down here are a little more fun," he says casually. "The more…adventurous ones on Asgard I wouldn't go within thirty yards of. Pox ridden wretches, the lot of them."
"Nice," Natasha says, raising her eyebrows. It's a little more than she really needs to know about the women of Asgard. She'd rather let the conversation die altogether to be honest, now that she knows he's not going to be getting into any awkward situations, or, if he does, she's given him fair warning, but it sounds as though he's got things under control, thankfully. She wonders what type of woman would have a one night stand with Loki, and figures that whoever she was, she must have been pretty, because Loki doesn't strike her as the type to have just anyone. After a few seconds of consideration, she realises that she doesn't even want to know, and that whatever he gets up to when he's out of the apartment is probably best left well alone.
She gets up, deciding that she needs a drink to wash away the conversation, and so she heads for the kitchen, grabbing a glass and pouring out a generous helping of vodka. She calls in to Loki to ask if he wants some, but she takes his groan of response as a no, and as she turns towards the kitchen door, she automatically grabs the bottle by the neck and brings it with her, figuring she'll need a refill soon enough.
He watches her far too closely for her liking when she downs the first glass, and when she pours the second, vodka glugging out of the bottle and splashing into the bottom of her glass, he frowns, hugging his cushion against his stomach as though it will protect him from any airborne alcohol that may worsen his hangover.
"What's the matter with you?" he asks.
"I saw Sean this evening," she says stiffly. And then, before she can stop herself: "He has a new girlfriend."
"Already?"
"Yep." She swallows down another mouthful of vodka, relishing in the burn at the back of her throat. It's cleansing, and apart from that, it's clouding her head to the extent where it doesn't hurt as much anymore. It feels like a distant scar, rather than a fresh, raw wound, and that's how she'd prefer it to stay.
"What's she like?"
"Fucking gorgeous," she tells him, refilling her glass and ignoring his surprised expression at her drinking pace. He must be forgetting that you can take the girl out of Russia, but you can't take the Russia out of the girl.
"Really?" he asks, with far too much interest.
"Yeah," she says. "Like a fucking supermodel. She's all tall, and blonde, and blue eyed and just…" She trails off, shaking her head, and Loki nods in understanding.
"Yeah, those kinds of people are very trying, I find."
She rolls her eyes. "She's really nice as well. I could handle if she was a total bitch, but she's not, she's nice, and he'll probably be really happy, which is great, but I mean shit, couldn't he have left it a week?"
"Why would it be any better if she were a bitch?" Loki asks in confusion.
"Because," she says obviously, pausing to take a sip of her drink. "I could handle the fact that she's way prettier than me if she actually had some kind of flaw, but she doesn't."
"She might be a complete idiot for all you know," he says airily. "And at least you'd have that over her. And besides, I don't think she is a super-spy assassin who can kill a man with her bare hands, do you?"
"Yeah, that's not really one of my plus points." Her chosen career is the reason that everything went to hell with Sean in the first place, the lies, the alien lying low at her apartment. If she just worked in an office or a store, none of this shit would have happened.
"Well I think it's a plus point," Loki sniffs, and she can't help but allow her lips to break into a small smile of that. Of course he would consider a career that lends itself best to expert liars and those capable of murder to be a plus point. Of course he would. "And…" he says, dropping all of his haughtiness and looking at her frankly now. "I wouldn't start comparing your looks to hers. She might be really attractive, but you're not exactly a bilgesnipe, are you? That's what you're making it sound like, and you're not."
"Bilgesnipe?" Natasha asks gently, resting her glass in her lap, her hands slightly numb from how much she has drunk in such a short space of time.
"They're really ugly," Loki says by way of an explanation. "And you're not really ugly. I'd sleep with you, anyway."
"Great," she says, taking another sip of her vodka.
"That's meant to be a compliment."
"I'm sure you intended it as such," she says dryly. It hasn't made her feel any better. She doesn't want a scheming alien to go to bed with her, she wants the nice guy with the normal life.
"What I'm trying to say," he says exasperatedly with a roll of his eyes, "is that you're…you know…"
"What?"
"You're very beautiful." His tone is soft and genuine when he speaks, and she knows he's not saying it to try and get her into bed, he's not lying for personal gain, he's just saying it. He certainly wouldn't say it just to make her feel better. He would never stoop that low in the grand scheme of emotional things. But he's said it, and that's strange.
"Thanks," she says, unsure of how to respond. He nods, and she knows that it's probably time to put the vodka down, lest she start wailing about how unfair her life is to him. She sets her glass on the table and presses her hands to her face, determined to put the evening's horribleness behind her.
"Come here," he says gently, breaking the silence. She takes her hands away from her face and frowns at him, then, when he gestures for her to come closer, she scoots along the sofa. He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, and soon they're lying down together, her body tucked into his, head resting on his forearm, his other arm holding her comfortingly against him.
"This is weird," she says quietly.
"I am capable of being decent you know."
She smiles at this, and some of the tightness in her chest loosens, and she is able to breathe a little easier. She is horribly aware that this is going to hurt for a while, that every time she runs into Sean will be like a knife to the gut, especially if he has some leggy blonde in tow, bestowing lipstick-y kisses on him.
"You know, I could always sleep with her. That'll mess things up, right?"
It should concern her that his offer is one hundred percent serious, but instead she laughs softly.
"If she's as gorgeous as you say she is, then I'm sure I could manage it, for you, of course. I wouldn't do it for any other reason."
She can hear the sly grin in his voice and rolls her eyes. She doesn't want to fuck things up for Sean though, not really. And it would be quite the kick in the teeth if he found out that Loki had destroyed two blossoming relationships on the trot.
"I don't think it'll be necessary to do that," she says. "But thanks for the offer."
"Fine," he sighs. "But don't say I never do anything for you."
She smiles briefly, and silence falls over them. She feels sleepy, but the hollow ache in her chest is keeping her awake, despite the very best efforts of her vodka to send her into unconsciousness. She hates herself for being so emotionally fragile over the whole situation, and hates that no matter how much she tries to swallow it down, to ignore it all, it still rises like an ugly beast at the most inopportune moments and strikes her with a painful blow. She was stupid to get involved with this kind of thing in the first place. Normal lives are for other people, not for her, and she knows now that she's only ever going to get burnt if she ever tries to play with something like this again.
What she needs, more than anything, is good, hard assignment, requiring lots of brain power, lots of concentration, and hopefully, but not necessarily, a little bit of violence, just to take the edge off her stress.
"D'you want to feel better about yourself?" Loki murmurs, his breath catching against her hair.
She nods, and he reaches one long arm over her, stretching out to the coffee table, where his fingers just manage to close around the TV remote. He switches on the TV and begins flicking through the channels so rapidly that Natasha starts to feel dizzy and closes her eyes.
"Here we go," he says after a few moments. "This should do it."
She opens her eyes, and it's an episode of Maury, with a tagline of I'm expecting my half-brother's baby and there's nothing you can do about it!
The half-brother only has a handful of teeth in his mouth, and the girl has got to be seven or eight months along, her pink tank top stretching over her round belly, a pale strip of skin visible between the hem of it and the waistband of her her jeans. Natasha can barely decipher what they're saying, between their thick accents and their slang, but Loki is, for once, completely correct. She does feel a little better about herself.
"Could always be worse," he says knowingly as the credits roll at the end of the show. "You could be a crack whore."
She elbows him in the side and he sniggers. After the adverts pass, another episode starts up, this one involving half a dozen DNA tests and a large crowd of shady looking guests. As time wears on, she slowly begins to understand why Loki is able to spend all day on this couch, staring at the people whose lives are more of a mess than his, and by the time they give it up and go to bed, her shallow heart feels just a little lighter.