Just a note, the one-shot I posted, oh, say, a month back, really ties into the last chapter. "Child of Mine," all from Frigga's POV. Check it!
Gracious, we are getting close to the end!
-XXX-
I've never been good at losing. When I was in indoor soccer in the fifth grade, I developed a notorious (well, as notorious as a fifth grader can be) reputation for my temper against my own teammates when we approached the last part of the game and our score wasn't quite a winning one. I quickly found my anger did little. But it sure felt good to yell.
It's a tactic I've resorted to here.
Screaming into my pillow ("His pillow.") in the middle of the night. Throwing clothes and small objects. Breaking things, shredding paper. The violence, though childish, gives me satisfaction.
I pace the house ("His house.") when the silence of my mind becomes unbearable, playing loud 80s pop. Things creep up from the corners, smoky shades voicing painful reminders. Sometimes, these voices are Loki's. Other times, Banner's, or even Joseph's. It is hard to bear, but at the chance of hearing Loki's voice, even his most menacing tones, I anticipate these moments.
Will it always be like this? Separation, constantly? Since he fell from the sky behind my house, we've been parted three times. And while I know his promise-"I will return to you. For you."-is genuine, I cannot help but think this pattern will be our lives until death or eternal loathing separates us. I do not know how time passes in Asgard in comparison to how it moves here. It may be years before he finds his way back. To wait forever might be impossible….
Yet anything else feels simply wrong.
As I sit in a coffee shop, alone, or browse the clearance section in a bookstore, when men smile at me, talk, or in any way indicate an interest, I find myself shutting down, turning suddenly into an exceptionally quiet person. Cold. Impersonal.
Will this be my life now? Waiting on the whims of a temperamental god? Always?
New York is now home - it became official after SHIELD claimed anywhere else could prove dangerous. I ignored them. The decision was more so a personal choice; staying would mean Loki knew where he could find me. Staying meant the scent of him - pine and rain and something clean - would linger on me. Staying means I don't have to face the places we first experienced each other. And it means I can slip away into the busy heart of the city, lose myself to the world, if only for a brief period of time. Screw SHIELD.
I returned home once to pack up clothes and books and my cat. The house was still mine, so I arranged for renters, with my friend Anita acting as a kind of landlord in my stead. The brownstone in New York was, according to the paperwork, paid for in full. All expenses, utilities and services, were paid out of an untouchable account. Loki, taking care of me even when I didn't want nor need him to. Had he foreseen this occurring, or do gods just not like filling out checks every month?
Aside from the loneliness, life here as been pretty nice. Win has acclimated to the house. He loves sitting on the windowsill to watch the pidgins. His preferred place of sleep is the guest bedroom I sometimes occupied when I took day naps. Overall, we've adapted well. There are still a few snags-I have yet to master the art of subway riding, the search for a decent green grocer's within a twelve-block radius isn't going so well, life without a car is increasingly difficult, and I'm slipping back into my habit of talking aloud to Win.
But we're adapting. And that's all that matters, in the long run.
-XXX-
About twenty high-pitched, yet hushed, voices fill the room. The scent of ink fills the warm air, saturated by the noise of rollers against sticky glass pallets, slick with colour. I move from table to table, guiding young arms through the motions of applying colour to linoleum sheets. The knives have been, thankfully, put away now. At this point, our biggest threat is inkstains. Each child (does twelve to fourteen still count for children?) has on an apron, but even so arms and cheeks already bear proof of our labors. My hands are a veritable rainbow.
I love my job. Both of them - acting as a consultant, researcher, and auction representative for my old gallery, for Charlene, and this new one of conducting kid's workshops in the various museums. While I've never been a kid-person (or a long-distance relationship-person for that matter, which is why my current business arrangement with Charlene surprises me for the sheer fact it works well for both of us), the cheery eagerness of young minds has softened me to them. Not enough to make me long for little ones…yet. I can appreciate them, though, in a way I never have before. They want to learn, even if they might never admit it. And, though I may never say it aloud, I enjoy teaching them. I am no artist, not by any means, but I can sculpt, or throw a pot, paint with watercolours, weave, print, draw…not always well, but I can.
This month's lesson has been over printmaking, so we've been carefully carving into our lino blocks. The prospect of making a real live print, the kind found in newspapers and magazines, is exciting to them. It is an infectious feeling.
"Marcus," I warn from across the room. "If I see you sling that roller one more time, I'm going to tell Miss Gina you need more quiet time. C'mon, buddy, you're getting other kids all paint-y."
This ser is one of my school groups. They're right down the street, so this visit is their weekly culture shot. Gina, an eagle-eyed redhead (who reminds me of another sharp young woman with flaming hair), is their devoted teacher. From the corner of the room where she is crouched next to Emily, who has her small hands pressed hard on the lino sheet, Gina smiles.
"Watch yourself, Marcus," she advises. "Do I need two sets of eyes on you?"
The boy looks sullenly between us before shaking his head. The teacher and I exchange an amused glance before turning back to the other students.
Thirty minutes later it's cleanup time. The kiddos swarm to the cubbies where their coats, hats, gloves and scarves wait. They scramble to tuck into their warm clothes – though it's March, it's still nippy out there.
While I sort prints onto the drying rack, Gina sidles up to me, grinning. She is one of the only friends I've managed to make so far since I've moved. Still connected to my old life, finding a new set is difficult. I've done what I can to detach from life before. Reminders of life from before monsters and super heroes and gods existed in my world. Little things, like coffee brands, house décor, and people's laughter. Severing connections can be hard, though. Especially when there isn't another brand of bread I like, any other rug I can put in my guest room, or anyone else to turn to.
Those who brought about this separation have little guilt, but there is effort to make it up to me in small ways. Bruce will meet up for the occasional beer, dragging along Hawk or Steve when he can. Pepper has been kind enough to invite me out to lunch or the occasional opera. Tony is Tony…he has few cares, but even I can feel the frost of awkward that claims every room we both inhabit. The Widow avoids (or simply ignores) me like the plague, as does her partner (when Bruce isn't encouraging him to go out with us), and the few times Thor has been in town, I have kept a wary distance.
He is very kind, welcoming, even. He makes a genuine effort to meet with me. Bruce is little help here-he and Thor get along swimmingly. They have an understanding; when Thor is on "Midgard," we go out for Chinese. Again, this is extremely awkward-I want nothing to do with the guy who snagged my housemate and dragged him back to the exact place Loki didn't want to be. It isn't his fault, exactly, but anything out of Asgard only serves as a brutal reminder of what was, and what might've been.
My ring winks up at me, reassurance.
"So," Gina begins as her ducklings scramble to put away ink canisters and wash their rollers. I watch as colour melt in the water, traveling down in swirls in the base of the sink. "I've been thinking…you've not had a date since you moved here."
Tripped up, my mind blanks out briefly. "Uh, no," I agreed.
"Well, I've met the most interesting guy…."
I cannot bring myself to cut her off. I listen as she describes this guy who is "so perfect for you it's not even cliché." He owns an antique and vintage wear store in Brooklyn. He spends his weekends at the local Humane Society, or as a Big Brother. His name is Harker, and would I be interested in a blind date? She would really love to set me up.
"Does Harker know he's the perfect guy for me?" I ask wryly.
"Well, not in so many words. But he would like to meet you."
Biting my lip, I do my best to appear mildly interested. "Um, that's so nice of you, Gina. Seriously."
"But?" she prompts, acknowledging where this is heading.
"I'm not really ready. Yet." I say in a rush. "I just got…uh, dumped-" Is that what it would be called? My sort-of boyfriend person gets virtually incarcerated in his light-years-away home planet, while still sort of intending to be captured? Does "dumped" sum that up? "-by someone I was really…well, we were serious. Moved-in serious. And I just don't feel…prepared."
Gina nods slowly, one hand moving to guide the shoulder of a child passing at a break-neck pace (for a twelve-year-old). "I hear you. You've gotta get back on that horse sometime, honey."
"I know. Just not quite yet." I straighten, giving her my hand. In a pleading voice, I say, "I promise you, within the next year I will go out with a guy. We will get dinner, drinks, maybe see a movie. The whole shebang. But I need a little more time."
Gina eyes me, convinced, but concerned. "This must have been some fellow for you to be cold turkey for…how long has it been?"
"A while," I assure her. "But don't you worry about it. I mean, it's New York. People find each other every day."
"Yeah!" She brightens. Turning to the kids, she instructs them to line up outside. A chorus of "Goodbye Ms. Deror!" I wave them out, then go back to Gina as she scoops up her teacher-tote.
"Thank you. Sincerely, thanks. You're a good friend."
She smiles. "It's like you said. People find each other every day here. It's a city of love stories. You'll have yours. I know it. You're too nice a girl. I'm surprised there aren't already five guys in love with you, circling right now!"
-XXX-
I catch lunch with Bruce the next day. He's alone this time, dressed in khakis and a white button-down. He looks tired, as always, frazzled, but happy enough. Every time I see this mild-mannered man, I wonder how it is he is alone in his life. As far as I know, Tony and I are the only two people he regularly socializes with, not including Pepper and a few SHIELD squints-for-hire that he has working under him.
Bruce has an impressive new lab in Stark Tower. Over breadbowls, he describes in stunning detail all of his new toys, all the bells and whistles. His eyes glow like a kid's at Christmas. Tony has done well - he's effectively bought Banner's undying respect and affection. I don't understand much - it's like listening to a French person speaking very fast when I've only taken two years of high school Francais - but I nod and smile, enjoying his pleasure. Bruce is so rarely happy.
It's difficult for me to believe this guy is a big green fighting machine. Especially during moments like this.
"Are you living in the Tower now?"
"Sometimes," Bruce admits. "But sometimes I need distance. Work and home mixing too much. I've got a small apartment a couple of blocks away. And a room in the Tower. You know, Tony would put you up if you wanted…I know living in a place filled with bad memories can be…hard."
He is affectionate in his tone, warm in his gaze.
I blink. "I don't have any bad memories there."
Embarrassed, Bruce ducks his head.
I quickly change the subject, smiling brightly. We discuss matters of the city life – something entirely new to me, not so much to Bruce – and I let him explain subway etiquette to me, then we swap stories of Central Park. He promises next week we'll go by SoHo, so I can sort out the space of the city in my mind, and also to check out a few of the galleries. I've already been to most of the boroughs (a new concept to me, a city within a city). Bruce asks if I've seen the library, then goes on to rave about its architectural beauty.
The conversation eventually turns to me. Not something I advocated, but he is insistent. I tell him about Winchester, how he's adapting to city life. While most people would be turned off by my animated description of my cat's behavior, Bruce listens with interest. I altogether avoid discussion outside of superficial issues. We move onto my job, and I tell him about the kindergarteners I'm doing pottery with Monday. He laughs at the appropriate places.
When the meal is finished, we walk out to stand on the frozen sidewalk. I wind my cable-knit cranberry-coloured scarf 'round my neck, then fiddle with my creamy felt cap, fingers moving to the tassels of my scarf again as Bruce invites me to some science-y SHIELD banquet tomorrow night. I accept after some hesitation, remembering Gina's words about getting back on the horse. Besides, my acceptance pleases Bruce immensely, someone I sense could use some more pleasing things in his life. He smiles his shy half-smile, lips together, and we part ways. I ignore the ever-tepid murmurs that follow me home. Apathetic for the moment toward my own sorrow, I shrug against the chill, allowing my better half to internally narrate what I might wear to the formal banquet.
-XXX-
Have you missed Win? I have! In real life too, it's nice to be home to see him. He's getting fixed tomorrow, poor baby!
Thanks for the support! Reviews would be lovely...just saying!