A/N: Sorry this took a while. Hopefully the next one won't take so long (and I might actually start it in a minute). I haven't been idle since the last chapter either - I posted a Blackfrost three-parter called Inching Closer and also a Loki-centric one-shot called Life's Great Lie, both of which are available for your reading pleasure on my profile. But enough shameless plugging, hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know what you think!
The Interloper
by Flaignhan
She sits patiently on the bed, her fingers twitching every time the doctor pricks her with the fine needle held delicately between his thumb and forefinger. He tests her reflexes, then sends her over to the treadmill, hooking her up to a heart monitor before she's allowed to get going. She completes the test easily, and it is with a supreme sense of satisfaction that she sees him mark his paperwork with several large ticks.
"You're good to go," he says with a cheerful smile. "Take it easy for a few weeks though."
"Sure thing, Doc," she says, pulling the adhesive pads off of her chest before rubbing the sticky residue from her skin. "I'll take it easy."
"I mean it," he says seriously, his thick eyebrows knitting together in a reproachful frown. "If I think you're taking too much on you'll be grounded for another two weeks."
Natasha doesn't say anything, but grabs her bag, sends a nod of farewell in the doctor's direction, and leaves the office.
She waits impatiently in the elevator, pushing and holding the button for the fifty-third floor and overriding all other calls. She doesn't often give in to the temptation, but now and again, she permits herself a little selfishness. The elevator eventually grinds to a halt, and the steel doors open with a soft ding. Natasha steps out into the corridor and closes her hands into gentle fists, to keep her fingers from tapping against her thighs in anxious excitement. She's been ready to go back to work for a long time, her lazy days on the sofa blurring into one long monotonous stretch, the only variation coming the form of Loki's culinary experiments. Luckily, she'll still have those to go home to at the end of the day. It's the constant downtime that she's sick of.
She knocks once on Fury's door then enters the office, crossing the room in half a dozen strides before settling herself in the chair opposite him. He looks up from his reading, his eyebrow arching slightly as he looks her over, apparently searching for any symptoms of frailty. After a moment, he leans back in his seat, steepling his fingers as he exhales heavily. Apparently she has passed his examination.
"Monte Carlo," he says at last.
The corner of Natasha's mouth curves upwards in a small smile. "Yeah?"
"Something nice and easy to get you back into the swing of things," Fury continues. He leans forward, opening his desk drawer, then pulls out a file and slides it across the table to her. She flips open the cover, her eyes glancing over the photograph and committing the face to memory. Strong, angular features, dark eyes, dark hair flecked with grey, the faintest hint of a scar on his right cheekbone, most likely from some incident in his youth, and a brown freckle on his pale neck, which, to Natasha, signifies a bullseye more than anything else. She turns her attention to the written reports and scans through them, rapidly assimilating the information and half listening to Fury when he starts talking again.
"We've identified him as Max Sveltzer," Fury tells her. "He's visited the facility a few times. He's a multimillionaire, got his fortune from pharmaceuticals, but resigned as CEO of Omnilife six months back, just before this came to our attention."
"You think he's the money?" Natasha asks, looking up from her file. "Or you think he's got plans?"
"I think he's got a lot of money and a lot of unidentified biological weapons. That's never a good mix in my experience."
"Has he approached the military? Is he looking to sell?"
"No contact with the US Military," Fury tells her. "But that doesn't mean that he hasn't approached anybody else. He spends most of his time out of the country now. Luxembourg, Monte Carlo, Zurich…he has property in the Cayman Islands too but the last time he flew out there was seven years ago."
"So we know he likes paying taxes," Natasha muses, flipping over the page and scanning through all the personal details the research team have managed to get on him. Divorced a few years back, two sons, both working on Wall Street, no siblings, parents deceased, but there is an aunt in a care home in Virginia. "Does he give a damn about this aunt?" Natasha asks. "Or does he just cover the cost of the home to keep her quiet?"
"The place is a dump," Fury says, shaking his head in dismay. "All that money and he can't even put her in a half decent place."
"Any potential collaborators?"
Fury shakes his head. "Not that we know of. We have to tread carefully on this. There's only so much info we can get under the guise of being a competitor."
"Is that how you want me to go in?" Natasha asks. "A competitor? Or a potential partner? Get me some business cards and I'm sure I can convince him I'm the heiress to a Russian weapons factory." She brushes her fingers across the photograph of Sveltzer, her mind whirring as she tries to pick him apart from a still image. A man like that may well be too proud to go into business with a woman, to share secrets with her. A man like that would be much more likely to brag about his achievements, especially if he thinks the listener doesn't have the faintest idea about what he's saying.
"Do whatever you think is best," Fury says with a shrug. "We just want to keep this as far away from SHIELD as possible. We don't want any knee-jerk reactions, especially not with their facility on US soil."
Natasha nods, and they sit in silence for a few minutes while she finishes the final few pages of the folder, until at last, she flips it shut and slides it back across the desk.
"You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah," Natasha replies. "I'll be fine."
"Good. We were gonna send Barton, but we figured you'd look better in a dress."
Natasha smirks, and her heart rate picks up a little, her insides fluttering with the familiar feeling of anticipation before an assignment.
"How long will you be gone for?" he demands.
"I don't know," she replies, unzipping the suitcase and flipping the lid back so it lands with a thunk on the mattress.
"But you can estimate, surely?"
Natasha rolls her eyes and strides past him to throw open the doors of her wardrobe. Loki follows her, clutching the edge of the door, his fingers tapping anxiously against the edge of it.
"It'll take as long as it takes," she tells him. "Maybe a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. I won't know until I get there."
"But you shouldn't be rushing back in this quickly, and on your own."
Natasha pauses while perusing her clothes and arches her eyebrow at him.
"You know what I mean," Loki says exasperatedly. "If you'd come back here alone after you'd been to that base, you'd be dead."
"I know that," she says through gritted teeth, annoyed with him for bringing up the one thing that's been nagging at the back of her mind. "But I can't have a babysitter for the rest of my life."
Loki lets out a huff and sits down heavily on the bed, his eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, and Natasha turns back to her wardrobe, slipping a slinky royal blue number from a coat hanger. She folds it gently and lays it in the bottom of the suitcase before turning back to her wardrobe and picking out her favourite little black dress (the Doomsday Dress, as Clint likes to call it) and adding that to her suitcase too.
"You'll have the apartment to yourself," she says, attempting to inject a little optimism into him. "And I'll leave you some money so you can get food and stuff."
Loki doesn't say anything, just sets his jaw in a sulky expression, reclining on his elbows as he watches her take a few more dresses from the wardrobe. It's a nice change to be packing dresses instead of kevlar and holsters. She'll be using a different kind of weapon on this assignment - it's much more like the old days.
"And what happens if you get into trouble?" he asks at last. "What happens then?"
"I won't get in trouble," she tells him, clinging onto her patience as she tosses her make up into her toiletry bag and slings it on top of her clothes.
"Wherever you go there's trouble," he retorts, his eyes fixed on her as she moves around the room, unplugging chargers and adding them to the quickly growing pile of items in her case. She smirks, and when she glances across at him, she sees the faintest hint of a smile, curving the corner of his mouth.
"Something we have in common," she tells him, and his grin becomes a little more pronounced. "Except I finish the trouble. You normally start it."
"My version is more fun," he tells her, his sulkiness dissipating at last as he allows his mouth to form a proper smile, albeit a coy one.
"Your version destroyed an entire city," she reminds him. As soon as she says it, she wishes she hadn't. The last thing she wants to do is put him in a bad mood before she leaves him alone for an indeterminate amount of time.
Without a word, Loki pushes himself up from the bed and leaves the bedroom. Natasha lets out a sigh and moments later she hears the tinny racket of the TV. Shaking her head, knowing full well she can't do anything about him now, she crouches down and pulls out the drawer of the divan. She grabs a couple of pairs of heels and slings them into the case. It's hardly the neatest packing she's ever done, but neatness can wait - her flight leaves in a couple of hours and she still has to deal with the overgrown teenager in her lounge. She doesn't know what she's worried about - he was fine when she was in the hospital, and they had no warning of that, so this time he should be okay, shouldn't he?
Perhaps he's upset because of the distance, the fact that she'd putting thousands of miles between them with no real indication of when she'll return, or if she'll return at all. She knows she will, but Loki seems preoccupied with the notion that something terrible will happen to her and he'll be left homeless. She grabs her jewellery box and tosses it on top of her clothes before she zips the case shut and hauls it off of the bed. She takes one last look around the bedroom, ticking off everything on her mental checklist, before she wheels it into the lounge and sets it against the hallway wall, ready for her departure.
Loki is stretched across the couch, his arms folded over his stomach as he watches a grainy episode of Jerry Springer from the late nineties. Natasha walks over to him, and it's not until she goes to sit down on top of him that he actually moves his legs towards the back of the couch, allowing her some space on the edge of the middle cushion. She takes the remote from him and switches the TV off. Loki bristles, then rests his gaze on her, his expression haughty.
"You've got the TV to yourself for god knows how long," she says impatiently. "I'll be out of here soon enough."
His mood doesn't improve at her words, and he doesn't have any response for her, so she fumbles around for something else to say.
"I won't be gone for long," she says. "And I've left you plenty of cash so you don't have to worry about that - "
"I'm not worried about that," he snaps, and Natasha frowns at his quick fire response.
"Well then what are you worried about?" she demands. "Cause you know with me gone you've this place to yourself, you can hit the bars if you like, go to a fancy restaurant or, fuck it, go see a Broadway show! Do something! Anything, as long as it's legal. I don't get what your problem is."
"My problem," he says, sitting bolt upright, his face only a few inches from hers, "is that they're sending you to another country, without backup, to deal with people who are not only incredibly dangerous, but also incredibly stupid, which only serves to make them more dangerous. Look at what happened to you last time!"
"Oh come on," she says. "You really think that a week or two in Monte Carlo is gonna mean you'll have to find yourself a new landlady?"
"I'm not worried about my accommodation," he says tartly. "I'm worried about - " He stops himself before he can go any further, and Natasha half wonders if he will blurt out his final word regardless, but then his expression smooths over, mask firmly back in place. "It doesn't matter," he says at last, rubbing his face tiredly before he slumps back down on the couch. Natasha looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap, all the possible endings to that sentence running through her mind at a hundred miles an hour. Just when she thinks that she's gotten all that he's prepared to give, he sits up again, his eyes clouded with a sadness that she can't find a reason for.
"Actually," he says, his eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but at Natasha. "It does matter. I'm worried about you. And I'm worried that if I don't tell you that, then I'll never see you again."
Natasha blinks. That's not what she'd expected at all. She had thought his concerns might lie in SHIELD agents snooping around her apartment, that he might be discovered, and, eventually, have to face a reunion with Thor. She hadn't thought for a moment that he would be worrying about her safety. While he had had been concerned when she'd collapsed after her last assignment, that was a different kind of fear. No one wants somebody dying mysteriously when they're the only witness, especially not when Loki's background is as chequered as it is. She didn't have him pegged as the superstitious type either. It must be eating away at him, because she can tell, without a doubt, that it's the most honest he's ever been with her, and she doesn't press him for any more information. Judging by the colour in his cheeks, he's made a big enough step for today.
"It's gonna be fine." She places her hand on his forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I'll go, put on a nice dress, bat my eyelashes a little, and get everything I need."
"But last time - "
"I have to go back at some point," she says. "And that was a freak occurrence. I've done dozens of assignments this year, and that was the only one that left me in the hospital.
"But - "
"It's like when you fall off a bike," she says, before he can protest any further. "You have to get back on and start pedalling again, or else you'll never get anywhere."
"We don't have bikes in Asgard," he says quietly, and Natasha's lips curve into a small smile.
"Well when I get back, maybe we can head over to Central Park and I can teach you how to ride." She expects him to dismiss the suggestion, not just because it involves going outside and staying sober. He can handle a trip to the grocery store, but going outside for the sake of going out? Not a chance. The biggest hurdle will be the fact that the last time he was in Central Park, and actually, probably the only time, he was in chains, and Thor's prisoner.
"Just be careful," he says, skewing his lips to one side and folding his arms. He looks across to the blank TV, clearly wishing that there were something on the screen in which he could feign some interest. Natasha hesitates, then leans forward and presses her lips softly against his cheek. He flinches at the contact, and Natasha pulls away. She wonders how long it's been since somebody kissed him - alcohol fuelled one night stands not included.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she takes it out to find a message informing her that her ride to the airport is waiting outside the front of her building.
"I gotta run," she says. "But I'll see you soon." She gives him a brief smile, then stands, slipping her phone into her pocket. "Be good."
He narrows his eyes at this, and Natasha turns away, heading towards her suitcase. She takes down her jacket from the hook on the wall and pulls it on, glancing across at Loki, but he's already reaching for the remote. She shakes her head exasperatedly and yanks up the handle of her suitcase, the loud metallic clicks garnering no reaction from him. She wheels it down the corridor and pulls open the front door, stepping over the threshold as the familiar cacophony of shouting talk show guests strikes up again.
"Bye." The word erupts from him as though it was against his better judgement to say anything at all. She knows that tone though, and it harks back to his fear that if he doesn't tell her he's worried about her, then something will awful will happen. If they part on good terms, it means she's coming back, right?
It's the aftermath of grief, and it's clear as day - that negotiation with yourself that had you been kinder, then the universe would have been kind in turn. She suspects she knows the root cause of Loki's superstitions, but he can confirm that one way or the other when he's good and ready. Her patience on the matter doesn't stop her from mulling it over and over in her mind however. In the car, during check in and security, while she's relaxing in the first class lounge, and even when the plane takes off, she is still repeating his words, over and over and over in her head.
It is certainly an easy way to slip back into things. As the porter wheels her suitcase into the suite, she takes a look around - the marble floors polished to perfection, elegant furniture positioned just so, half a dozen enormous vases of fresh flowers set at strategic points, heavy silk curtains drawn back and held in place with thick golden cord. Natasha glances up to the ceiling high above her, and takes a moment to admire the hefty chandelier, the crystal droplets clinking softly together in the breeze of the air conditioning.
"Anything else I can do for you, Madame?"
"No, that'll be all, thank you." She holds out a neatly folded ten euro note to him, and he steps forward to take it, nodding his head in thanks as he removes it carefully from between her fingers. A few seconds later, Natasha hears the door close, and she lets out a slow breath, then goes to inspect the rest of the suite. She's only a couple of floors from the top, which does limit her in terms of window escapes (should she require it) but when she goes to check out the balcony, she notes that there's another one on the floor below, although it's a good twenty foot drop. If push comes to shove, she could handle that, but she's not sure her knees could take such abuse all the way to the ground floor. Heading back into the suite, she notes that the air con is being fed into the room via several tiny vents, barely large enough for her to fit her hand inside, let alone her entire body. The key thing on this assignment, she supposes, is that if she is going to get in trouble, do it elsewhere. The room is big on luxury and completely lacking in any sensible design - the drawer in the desk is far too shallow for her to hide her gun in, the ornate doors separating the lounge from the bedroom far too dainty to withstand any brute force, and the spindly furniture is not nearly substantial enough to cause any serious damage, were she to utilise any of it in a fight.
Locking the door of the suite, she glances over to the grandfather clock near the fireplace, and notes that she has a few hours before the evening festivities get into full swing. Her eyes then fall on the cast iron poker, standing neatly in its holder next to the grate, and she nods approvingly. Maybe she wouldn't be too stuck should things get unpleasant, but if she plays her cards right, if, over the next few days, she manages to seamlessly involve herself in the rich club and their games, she should be well on her way to getting all the information Fury wants and more without a single drop of blood being spilled.
She clambers onto the enormous bed and settles herself back against the plump pillows, her hands resting on her stomach as she tries to clear her mind enough so she can get a few hours' sleep. It's an optimistic idea; she rarely sleeps well away from her apartment, every little noise throwing up a dozen life threatening possibilities in her mind, every footstep overhead potentially belonging to a criminal, a terrorist, or a murderer. In her own apartment she is used to the noises - the distant traffic, the heavy footsteps of the tenant above, his morning routine (his alarm sounds at six thirty and he hits snooze half a dozen times before his feet touch the floor), his low chuckle as he watches Comedy Central late in the evening. She's never spoken to him, doesn't know what he looks like, but she knows him, and would be able to detect anything out of place in a heartbeat.
As she lays there, staring up at the golden accents on the carved ceiling, she wonders when she became so dependent on routines. Maybe she's getting old, or maybe the attack on New York was a little too close a call for her liking. She doesn't know how she feels about it, has never given herself the space to really get over it. After the invasion, she and Clint had headed to Atlantic City and spent a week getting hammered and laughing at Loki's downfall. They had laughed until they had tears streaming from their eyes, but now, with the gifts of hindsight and sobriety, she knows that even then, none of it had been funny. Defeating the Chitauri had nearly cost them everything they had, and what happens when they don't have anything left to give? What happens if she decides to hang up her jumpsuit, put away her guns, and move to the country? What happens if Tony and Pepper have kids? What happens if Steve finally gets himself a date and finds a nice girl to settle down with? What happens when they decide to claim back their own lives?
She rolls over and buries her head in her pillow. She can't think about that kind of thing right now, not when she's got a job to do. If she really, truly, wants to get out, maybe she should talk with Fury when she gets back, although she can't envision a scenario where that conversation would ever go well. How would she even approach it?
She must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing she knows, she's waking up in a darkened room, the sky outside an inky blue, punctuated by the soft flash, flash, flash of a passenger jet in the distance. She pushes herself up with one hand and rubs the grit from the corners of her eyes with the other, stifling a yawn as she tries to work out exactly how much of the evening she's wasted. It shouldn't matter anyway, from what she knows about Monte Carlo from her previous visits, little inconveniences such as time are considered redundant here.
She unzips her suitcase and extracts her black dress, setting it on the bed before she goes to take shower. The bathroom is stupidly large, probably bigger than the entire living area in her apartment, and she eyes the gleaming white claw-footed bath with longing before she reluctantly heads towards the shower. She slaps her hand against the on button, and water immediately sprays from the shower head, splashing against the tiny square wall tiles. Natasha strips off quickly, kicking her clothes to one side before she steps into the shower, the hard pressure of the water against her back a godsend after her long flight. She makes the most of the complimentary toiletries - designer shampoo and conditioner, body wash with an essay printed on the bottle about how organic and superior it is - and she soon feels as good as new.
When she's done, she wraps herself in an enormous fluffy white towel, still warm from the heated rail, and goes back into the bedroom to prepare herself for battle. She dries and styles her hair, opting for soft curls that fall to her shoulders, then pulls on her dress, inspecting herself from every angle in the mirror. It's not particularly short, but it does show just enough of her thigh that means, in her experience, her targets will want to see a little more. She opts for a gentle, dusky pink for her lip colour, and only a little eyeliner. In a place like this there are hundreds of expensively made up women who would gladly spend time with a rich man. She cannot afford to blend in, and so, on this occasion, less is more.
Opening her jewellery box, she selects a pair of diamond studs. She smiles as she slides the stem through her ear lobe and fastens the butterfly at the back. She had taken the cufflinks of a target as a souvenir and had these made at a quiet, back street jeweller's in Brooklyn. The guy had nearly had a heart attack when she'd brought them in - eight carats inlaid in white gold - but he had done a great job. and every time she wears them, she relives a little of the satisfaction that she had gotten when she had pulled them from their previous owner's shirt sleeves.
Finally, she slips her feet into her heels and takes one last look in the mirror. If nothing else, she will make an impression tonight, will give Sveltzer a tantalising glimpse into what the future may hold if he pursues her. She smiles, smooths down the front of her dress, then picks up her purse and heads for the door.
The air outside is warm and a little humid, a storm definitely in the works, but she walks the short distance across the square to the casino. She slowly climbs up the stone steps to the entrance, and one of the suited doormen bows her inside, his pristine white gloves shining brightly under the golden glow of the casino lights. Naturally, her first port of call is the bar in one of the grandest rooms, and she weaves through the crowds of tuxedos and long glittering dresses in order to reach it. Barely a second passes before a smartly uniformed bartender is standing in front of her, ready to take her order.
"I'll have a Bellini if you don't mind," she says, affecting the appropriate air of casualness and a wide, easy smile to match her accent. When she had seen her documentation, she had cursed Fury and his ridiculous games. She speaks half a dozen languages and yet, here she is, playing a southern belle in the middle of Europe.
"Of course, Madame," the bartender says, and he immediately busies himself with her order, giving Natasha time to look around the vast space, her eyes searching for any sign of Sveltzer. She sees plenty of men with greying hair, and plenty of men see her, but she doesn't spot those sharp features or dark eyes anywhere amongst the crowd. There is, of course, every chance that he could be in one of the private rooms, and she supposes she'll just have to stumble upon one of those by accident, apologise profusely, turn to leave and hope, if her dress does its job correctly, that she'll be called back and invited to stay.
The bartender sets her glass down on the bar with a flourish, inclining his head as though he has just performed a magic trick, and Natasha smiles graciously, passing him her credit card and waiting while he sets up a tab for her.
"Your name, Madame?" he asks. "For the other bars?"
"Miss Jensen," she tells him with a flash of a smile. "Miss Alicia Jensen."
"What a beautiful name," says a voice behind her. Natasha turns to find a tall, tanned man with his light brown hair swept back in a neat style.
"Why thank you very much," Natasha says, taking her glass from the bar before she lifts it to her lips, taking a small sip.
"What's with the accent?" he asks, his own clipped tones leaving a lot to be desired. Natasha frowns, and stands up a little straighter.
"What in heaven's name do you mean?" she asks, striking a fine balance between pleasantry and offence. "I'm from Louisiana, and this is how we talk there."
The man rolls his eyes, and there is a faint glimmer of green, his features shifting momentarily into a very recognisable face before transforming back again. Natasha's next words die in her throat, her face falling. Cover be damned, this is serious. There's CCTV all over this place, SHIELD are probably monitoring things remotely, and here he is, waltzing around in a god damn tux like he thinks he's something special.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses.
The bartender hands her back her credit card with a simpering smile, and Natasha plasters a smile across her own face, thanking him as she slips the card back into her purse.
"Who are you looking for?" Loki asks quietly, raising his own glass up to the light to inspect the whiskey inside it. He pauses for a moment before taking a sip, then turns to Natasha, awaiting an answer.
"I can't tell you that," she says, fake smile still in place, tone pleasant, accent stubbornly refusing to shift.
"I could help," Loki says with a shrug.
"No," Natasha replies curtly. "You couldn't."
"Fine," he says airily, pushing himself away from the bar and taking a couple of steps towards the crowd. "I'll see you later."
"Get back here," she says, her eyes flitting between the people closest to them, hoping against hope that they're all too wrapped up in their own lives to notice the hushed argument taking place at the bar. Loki saunters back, a smug expression on his borrowed face, and looks down at her.
"Nice dress," he says.
Natasha gives him a death glare, but he doesn't seem perturbed. He drains the last of his whiskey and sets the glass on the bar top, where it is swiftly cleaned away by the bartender.
"What are you doing here?" Natasha asks again, her tone dark. Her insides are swirling with anxiety, he could blow the whole operation, could get her into a ton of trouble not just with SHIELD, but with the security council. When all is said and done, he's still a god damn war criminal, no matter what sacrifices he might have made during Malekith's attack. If it's discovered that she's been harbouring him for months, it won't be a lengthy jail term she'll have to worry about, it'll be those noises in the dead of night, it'll be the motorcyclist with the blackened visor, or else the waiter with the glass of champagne, just for her. It'll be quiet and unexpected, and she'll be finished, wiped from the face of the earth as though she never existed. He's jeopardising her career and her life by showing up to an operation like this, so he'd better have a damned good reason.
He straightens the sleeves of his suit jacket as he ponders his answer, then, when Natasha poises the pointed heel of her shoe directly above his foot, he ditches the charade.
"There wasn't anything good on the TV," he says, and without warning, he disappears into the crowd, leaving Natasha standing alone at the bar, wishing she had something a little stronger than a Bellini in her hand.