INTERLUDE ONE

The hours stretched before me like a highway to the horizon. The whirlwind of preparation had felt good - like I was making progress - but now I had no other option than to sit and wait as the airplane carried us through the night to London. The overhead light above my seat cast a solitary circle of illumination. The buzz of the engines was a background noise that most had fallen asleep to.

I had gotten lucky and had the whole row to myself, but it was cold. I had layered wisely and asked for a second blanket, but my fingers were freezing. And I was restless. A week of frantic planning had kept me busy, kept me from thinking too hard about what I was actually doing. But now I was trapped in my thoughts.

I skimmed the in-flight magazine, and tried, unsuccessfully to get into a book I had picked up at the airport bookstore. I fidgeted through the games, movies, and music provided by the entertainment console embedded into the back of the seat in front of me. I ate all the snacks I brought with me in the first two hours. Finally, I pulled three ratty notebooks out of my carry-on bag and rested them on my lap.

I stretched my legs out over three seats and leaned my back against the vibrating cold cabin wall and stared out the opposite window. My little circle window was open and I could see the red and white flashing lights along the edges of the wings. Cloud wisps whizzed past, and bigger, vaster clouds sat on the horizon like grey mountains.

The last time I had taken a long international flight, my life was completely and irrevocably screwed up. I had, on a whim, flying to Germany to visit an old childhood friend, who, by the end of the trip, I had killed with a magic scepter. My sanity, identity, and history had been thrown into a blender, chopped up, and dumped onto my head. I had lost my third stepfather, Walter. My mother, who was not my mother, but my kidnapper, had tried to kill me along with everyone in Aspen. I had a front-row seat to the alien invasion of New York City, been harassed by S.H.I.E.L.D, found out I was not even human myself, and I had fallen in love with a superhuman who felt it was his duty to save every single person in America, maybe even the world. All because I decided to fly to Stuttgart for a weekend.

Getting back on a plane again didn't make me nervous though. It didn't make me anxious or afraid or even uneasy. This was a well-thought-out decision. I knew, even sitting under the light and two thin airplane blankets, I knew it was the best decision I had ever made.

It was my destiny.

After finding out I was pregnant, I had spent three months soul-searching in the form of writing. Clint had been the one to suggest it, to write everything down. I went out and bought a stack of 49 cent spiral notebooks and a pack of pens.

I wrote. I wrote in my bed, on my couch, in café and bars and restaurants, on long subway rides. I wrote in Central Park when it was warm and sunny, and in Anouk's library when it was raining. I wrote everything down that I could remember that had happened between Germany and Aspen. I lived in the tenuous place between memory and imagination, writing my story as if it were just that: a story with a beginning, middle, and end.

My hand cramped constantly the first week, but it got stronger. I cried the first month but felt better. I hated the process, almost quitting a few times until I had filled the first three notebooks, every line completely full. And then I was hooked. It was the only thing that mattered.

I quit going to rehearsals and shows and auditions; I quit answering my phone and my emails. Most people eventually stopped calling.

I reluctantly gave Pogo to Anouk. I had forgotten to walk him one morning and the mess I came home to told me he needed more attention than I could give him. He loved her as much as he ever loved me with his tiny dog-brain and his ginormous dog-heart. I resented that he could forget me so quickly, but was happy he was taken care of.

Natasha took me to doctor's visits, scowling the whole time. She had promised to keep my secret. She was used to deception, I knew, but I could see how much this one annoyed her. I knew she kept everyone else away. I was enjoying the space and time to think away from the driving agenda of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Of course, Steve was there, off and on. He flew back and forth from Washington D.C and New York, staying with me for a night and a day before heading out on a new mission to save the world. Always on the move. I didn't worry about him while he was away; he was indestructible, and he was coming back to the world more and more every day, learning to fit into his new life. I did worry about us, though. Our relationship.

Long distance is never easy, and throw in on top of that, a secret between us so large and life-changing that it was like a shadow over us every time we saw each other. I could see that he couldn't understand why I was changing so rapidly, going from scared little girl Siri to crazy Siri, to reclusive, writing Siri. I was going to tell him. But I wasn't ready yet, wasn't whole enough.

The only other people who still hung around, in their own way, were Pepper and Tony. They sent people to fill my fridge and clean my apartment. A stranger showed up every three days with his own key and wordlessly picked up my laundry off the floor. I was sure Pepper did this out of pity more than friendship. I think I really worried them that night on my birthday when they thought I was going to jump from the top of Stark Tower.

When I was done writing, and it felt like the end, I was left with a stack of five notebooks and an ink-stained, calloused hand. I was snuggled into my couch, the television on low for background noise, a to-go carton of chicken lo mein noodles half eaten on my coffee table when I realized there was nothing left to write. I closed the notebook, set it down next to me and shut my eyes.

I felt my throat constrict. It was done. I had confessed everything. I had taken a good look at my life, my pain and had processed it in a way that had finally made sense to my brain and my heart.

The next morning I panicked, worrying that someone might get a hold of my words and turn them against me somehow. I re-read everything, at first searching for incriminating secrets. After a few pages I was sucked in and in a way, I re-lived it all. I found it a relief to see my description of what a panic attack felt like. It made me feel less alone. I began adding some details with scraps of paper and tape. When I was finished...I understood.

I understood that going to Germany brought a lot of pain and turmoil, but I also understood that it had brought truth to my life. I could think about it now, everything that had happened between Germany and Aspen, as if it hadn't happened to me as if it all happened to a girl in a book. I understood that Luke was not my burden, but Loki's. I understood that Steve was the best part of my life, but that I had to learn to stand on my own. I was in danger of replacing my mother with him. I understood codependency was my weakness.

And most of all, I understood that I had made a mistake in not going to Asgard when I had the chance.

It was plain as a blank page: I had to go to Asgard. I had to meet my family and my past before I could live my future. I had to understand further where I came from, who and what I was. I had to know what a real mother, a good mother was before I could become one myself.

The plane hurled us through the sky, but I wasn't scared to fly. I wasn't scared to go to London to meet Dr. Selvig. And I wasn't scared to find a way to Asgard.