Sorry for the much shorter chapter than usual, guys! But the way this chapter ends just doesn't really work if I added the first half of the second chapter onto it. Don't worry, the next several updates are going to be packed with revelation/discoveries/action.

Sometimes I'm really surprised how far behind I am on updates in comparison to what I'm writing. I MAY consider updating twice a week again, depending on if this will drag on into the summer in which I may or may not want to end the story before then because I am possibly going on a long vacation in which internet may be available, but my time zone will be absolutely wacky compared to my usual times.

Considering that next Monday is Christmas Eve and the Monday after that is New Year's Eve, I am moving both weeks' updates to Wednesday instead. I apologize for the two-day delay for chapter 21, and I hope that the wait will be worthwhile :'). Have a wonderful holiday and don't spend too much time on the internet, my friends.

MACBETH

One cried "God bless us!" and "Amen" the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
List'ning their fear, I could not say "Amen,"
When they did say "God bless us!"

LADY MACBETH
 Consider it not so deeply.

MACBETH
But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.

She had to stop doing this.

She had to stop waking up in the middle of the night. A sweaty sheen on her face. Breathless. Stock still under her sheets as if moving a single muscle would inform the monsters in the shadows where she was so they could take her alive, kicking and screaming.

She had to stop. She was a grown woman. She was no child. Nightmares were for children.

(Children has the best and the worst things)

But Natasha couldn't even let herself sit up. Her muscles were taut and she buried her head under her sheets until each breath she took was warm and stuffy as if she inhaled wool. No amount of willpower would make her move her arm or poke her nose out of her covers so she could draw in cold air.

Fear was for children.

The air under the covers was hot, and she tried to convince herself it was not uncomfortable.

She finally let herself move underneath the sheets, turning onto her right side. It felt liberating, as if she broke leather bonds, so she forced herself to extend her head out from under the covers. The air was cold, combing through her short hair. It made her shiver. She made sure not to open her eyes.

She thought she had complete control over the mind. Instead, it escaped her clutches and defeated her.

She remembered that the moment she woke up, she was praying. Praying what, or why, or how, she did not know, only that she found herself feverishly reciting the Russian Orthodox prayers in her mind as if her life depended on it. How foolish she was; no god would listen to someone like her.

She opened her eyes to the green dim glow of the alarm clock. The room was blue from the half-moon outside the window. It was four in the morning, late enough to call it a night.

She sat up from her bed and threw off the covers, but not before turning on the lamp on the nightstand.

To keep from stepping on anything unfortunate, of course. She was not afraid of the dark. She never was.

She forced herself to walk out of her bedroom door and down the pitch black hallway. Forced herself to keep her steps from quickening as her heart jumped at the thought of something lurking in the shadows behind her. From letting out an unconscious cry of fear as she passed the closed doors.

She found herself in the sitting room again, where a light was already on. She let out a breath of relief as she bathed in the light. Shadows were outnumbered here.

Only, it took her longer than usual to notice that the lights were on for another reason—another person.

She saw him from the corner of her eye and she spun around immediately. He was sitting on the couch, book in one hand and a pen in the other. His eyes watched her meticulously from the top of the book.

Natasha swallowed, urging her heart rate to slow down.

"Looks like we can both catch each other by surprise pretty well," she said.

She couldn't see the bottom half of his face from behind the book, but she hoped he was smirking. She doubted he was, considering how his fingers trembled. He had been deathly distant these past days, ever since the SHIELD incident. She couldn't deny that it was disappointing; it was as if they regressed closer to the start. She didn't bother denying her worry.

"Can you not sleep or are you forcing yourself not to?" said Natasha, sitting next to him.

He cocked an eyebrow, as if to ask if it made a difference.

"You seem like the type to lack self-preservation," said Natasha. "Sleep is good for you. Go sleep. Or else I have to kick your ass, remember?"

Loki lowered his book, eyes narrowed.

"I at least slept a couple of hours earlier. You stayed up all night, didn't you?" she said.

He waved a hand flippantly and looked away.

"It totally matters. If you needed sleeping aid, Clint has melatonin, except I don't think that's the problem." She reached over and snatched the book from Loki's hands. Loki glared at her and reached out a hand demandingly. She desperately wished she had her tampons to shove into his hand this time.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's impolite to not give someone your full attention when they're talking to you?" she said, dangling the book before him.

His eyelid twitched in irritation. She couldn't help but grin.

"Let me guess. Thor did this to you all the time."

He nodded.

"Well, better get used to it," said Natasha. She nodded to the pen in his hand. "What's that for?"

He hesitated before shrugging nonchalantly.

"Don't give me that," she said. She glanced down at the book in her hand. There was no title on its red leather, and when she skimmed the pages they were completely blank. Lines and lines of empty spaces.

"Were you trying to write something before I came in?" said Natasha.

Loki shook his head.

"You're lying," said Natasha.

Loki glared at her. How dare she doubt the prince of lies? She could practically hear him simper those words in her ears.

"I don't know about you," said Natasha, "but most people don't have an empty notebook and pen without having the intention of putting something on it. Even if you are somewhat unpredictable."

He tossed the pen onto the coffee table and stretched his arms over his head, sinking lower into the leather. Natasha felt something of discomfort stir within her; ever since SHIELD it was like he drew a gauze curtain between them, hiding behind the translucent cloth so that everyone around him knew he was still there, but could not see him. He was difficult to read to begin with; now, he was sinking into himself until his own lights grew dim.

"I haven't seen you in a while, you know," said Natasha.

His hair was long when they first met, but now it was soft and curled just slightly at the nape of his neck. She wondered if change could be measured with rulers or teaspoons, for if they could then Loki would have been a changed person by a mile.

He shrugged, as if the thought of his absence never occurred to him.

"What, you didn't miss me a single bit?" said Natasha.

He cracked a smile at this and she felt a bit of weight fall from her heart.

"You haven't seen anyone much lately," said Natasha. "Not in a way of avoiding us, like locking the doors or hiding around the corner when we come around, but you don't…when we talk to you, it's like the words slip past you and you aren't trying to catch them. And when we try to get a response from you, you barely say—well, you barely do anything."

Loki narrowed his eyes slightly, turning his gaze to the coffee table. Natasha set the book down and turned to fully face him.

"Are you angry with us?" she said

Loki shot Natasha a befuddled look.

"You're upset with something," said Natasha. "Could it possibly be us?"

He shook his head vigorously, almost indignant that she suggested such a thing. Her lips curled into a sad smile.

"Are you angry with yourself, still?"

Loki bit his lip. For the God of lies, he didn't seem to be able to hide his emotions around her; but perhaps for once he wasn't trying.

"Are you?" she said.

He shrugged. It wasn't one of elusion.

"What are you feeling?" she said.

He ran a hand through his black hair and his eyes darted to the pen on the table. For a moment Natasha's excitement flared, expecting him to take the pen and finally shape his emotions and thoughts into words. However, he steered clear from the pen and notebook, and only gave Natasha a shake of the head to suffice for an answer.

"You can tell me," she said. "I'll be here."

He shook his head more vigorously, pushing her hand away. She pulled back, slightly unnerved, but she did not press further. Maybe he didn't understand how he felt himself. Maybe he didn't trust her that deeply yet.

And that desire to sink into him, read and live his thoughts, to understand his every fiber and find what needed to be fixed the most in him, grew hungrier within her. For one whose eyes were so clear and honest, his entire being seemed so far away, like a lighthouse in the night that was nothing but a twinkling light from the distance and she couldn't tell if it was a star or a pyre.

"I wish I knew," said Natasha. "I'd like to help."

He gave a sidelong glance at her before tilting his head slightly.

"If it keeps you up at night like this," said Natasha, "I'd like to give you rest."

He raised his eyebrows humorously before tapping her eyes.

"What?" she said, batting his hand away.

He scowled before poking her between the collarbones accusingly.

"Why am I not sleeping?" she said.

He nodded, narrowing his eyes. Her lips quirked into a wry smile.

"I told you," she said. "I slept a little and then I woke up."

His face sobered, his thin lips pressed together. He lifted a hand to the side of her head; she backed away immediately, grabbing his wrist before he could move closer. He jerked back indignantly, his jaw set stubbornly. He stretched his long fingers until he tapped her temple gently. Assured that he meant nothing else, she released his wrist.

"I don't know what you're trying to say," she said.

He withdrew his hand, averting his gaze. She wished she could just beg him to speak—open his mouth, it couldn't be so hard—but she could see the frustration and conflict in his eyes. He must have been asking himself the very same question.

"Are you…?" she started, wondering if she could speak for him. "Are you asking, what I was thinking about?"

He gestured with his hand that her guess was more or less the truth.

"I wasn't thinking, I was asleep," she said.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead as he tried to articulate without moving his lips. She doubted that he would mime his thoughts if she asked.

"Are you asking why I woke up?"

He nodded feverishly, his eyes brightening. She let out a sigh of relief; her abilities to read Loki were not entirely spent. But the moment of celebration faded immediately when she realized that he wanted an answer—why she woke up in the middle of the night, why she did not try to fall asleep again, why she sought out for him of all people in the early hours.

She swallowed hard and opened her mouth—she swallowed again. Honesty was not her strength. To never lie was a sly skill; to tell the truth was surrendering all her weapons, stripping away her armor, and letting herself free-fall, whether into someone's arms or a black void, she did not know.

"I had a nightmare," she said, her voice quiet.

She glanced at him. He turned to face her, his eyes and hands open. He was one of the few people she ever knew that listened so intently and wholeheartedly.

"I still kind of remember it," she said. He did not ask what she dreamt of, but he did not need to. "I was on a ship, and it was in the middle of a storm. The ocean was trying to swallow us whole, and I was the only one left on the ship. Everyone else—I don't know who—had ropes tied to their waists and were overboard, bobbing up in the waters and trying to get back on board."

She could see it vividly etched in her mind and she clenched her teeth. She didn't realize that she was gripping the sleeve of her hooded sweatshirt until she could feel her nails digging into her palm through the cloth. She released them immediately and hid her hands in her overlarge sleeves.

"I was at the edge, near the railing," she said. "That's where the ropes were tied to. The people, they were calling out to me. Crying for help, asking me to pull them in. They were nearly drowning, and every time they tried swimming closer, the waves would just push them away."

She looked away from Loki, pretending to be distracted by something outside of the window. The sky was stormy dark gray-blue, hints of dawn seeping into the sky. She had always imagined that sunrises banished nightmares without exception, but how could they if they poisoned themselves during the day? Were dreams not reflections of waking?

"I was just—I was so emotionless, and remorseless, and merciless, listening to them cry." she said. She wondered if she would regret speaking of this to him—if by the time she finished she wished she never spoke a word. But here, now, she couldn't stop herself from speaking and she was so desperate for someone to listen. To almost understand.

"Next thing I know it, I was taking a knife from my side and cutting the rope. I let them drown—I watched them drown in front of me. Just—one by one, I slit the ropes and watched them flail in the water before sinking and drowning. And when the storm calmed, the bodies floated facedown, bloated and just…dead. Drowned."

She rubbed the back of her neck, never taking her gaze away from the window. "I don't remember why, but all of a sudden I became afraid, looking at their bodies. Something turned on in me and I suddenly realized I should be afraid, and then I was. I was just—so afraid that seconds later I woke up, and I couldn't fall back asleep."

Drowned bodies. Faceless bodies. What should it matter to her?

Help me, they cried. Help me save me anything have mercy.

Stop it, Natasha thought. Stop. It was a dream. There were no bodies, no storm, no ship, nothing. Your mind is playing tricks on you.

But she felt that jolt of fear still in her that made her heart jump and her back itch with the possibility that the shadows behind her would become monsters and pull her from behind.

"It's stupid," she said. "I should stop talking. It's nothing."

Loki put a hand on her wrist. She pulled back quickly, unnerved by the sudden contact. Even he backed away perplexedly, as if his body had moved on its own accord and he had no idea what just happened. Her heart skipped a beat.

"I just hate it," she said. "I thought I had complete control over my mind, but then it pulls this on me."

He gave a crooked smile, as if to say, Oh, I've been there before.

"Hopefully that thing didn't let you delve into my mind," she said, pointing to his chest. "Or you'd have seen it. And maybe you'd think I was pathetic for being afraid."

He shook his head.

Not pathetic.

She shrugged. "I ought to be used to disturbing dreams. I've had them ever since the Red Room." She drew her feet onto the couch, sitting Indian style on the cushions. "Some things never go away."

She could feel his eyes on her, questioning her. "You said it yourself, didn't you? The horrors—they're a part of me and I can't run away from them. No matter what I do now. I thought I could just forget about them, but—" She shrugged and smiled ironically. "I guess my subconscious proved me wrong. As it should."

He frowned slightly.

"I did things you would never expect of me," she said. "When I woke up, do you know what I realized at first? For the first several minutes, I couldn't remember if what I saw in my mind was a dream or a memory. I've done things close to it in real life. Barton told you everything, but I never told him everything. I told you that, didn't I?"

But why not? said his eyes.

She sighed wearily.

"Because he doesn't need to know," said Natasha. "I don't need everyone to know too much when there's more than enough right now."

He crossed his arms in a challenging manner.

"I sure as hell am not a saint," said Natasha. "I've done too much. Nightmares are only a small portion of what I deserve."

His gaze dropped to his lap. He bit the tip of his tongue, his eyebrows knitted with thought. Then, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before leaning to the coffee table and taking the pen and paper.

Her heart jumped and she took a sharp intake of breath in anticipation. He clenched his teeth, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared at the pen and notebook in his stiff hands, before resolutely clicking open the pen and flipping open the notebook, letting the ink sink onto the white. She leaned closer, breath quickening as she waited for his thoughts to squeeze themselves into words she could understand.

But his hands did not write. The pen skidded across the paper with mild expertise, sketching shapes within the borders. He drew upon the paper swiftly, like the neighborhood artists in the park who captured scenery before it shifted and distorted like a pool of water.

She waited with baited breath as the lines entwined to form shapes and familiarity. The figure in the middle—it looked like a woman, with her neck craned so her currently featureless face watched the sky, arms outstretched as if ready to take off at any moment.

When Loki gave the paper woman a nose and eyes, closed in bliss, Natasha thought she recognized her.

When Loki gave her lips, Natasha realized that he was drawing her.

"Never knew you were an artist," said Natasha. "You made my lips really big."

He rolled his eyes and smiled. As he fine-tuned the details, Natasha saw that her ink counterpart was smiling. Laughing, maybe, if paper had voices. Arms outstretched and without a care in the world. No background was etched behind her, no reason given for why she was so happy, only her grinning self sinking into the pages.

"Wow," she said.

The Natasha on the paper looked…beautiful.

She wondered if she was ever so happy that he could portray her as so in such an enchanting way; she couldn't help but yearn to know, to line the mental photographs of herself every time she wasn't sad and see if she ever looked that way, that magical.

Loki turned the notebook and held it in both hands up to her eye level. He extended his arms to her, nearly shoving the portrait into her face. She accepted it, her eyes tracing each curve of the smile, the lines upon her eyelids as they were squeezed shut with laughter. She wondered what would make her so carefree as this—only when she could see how possible it was, she hungered for it.

You shall have your happiness, said the open-mouthed grin.

No matter what you ever did, said the outstretched fingers, you will find your peace.

And you won't be alone, said the long white fingers that still rested underneath her hands.

She looked up, a tumult of emotion raging inside of her. He looked away, slipping his fingers away from underneath her grasp. She tightened her grip on the notebook and offered him a smile—only a fraction of the sheer intensity that her paper doll was so blessed with, but it was everything of her.

"Thanks," she said. "Thank you."

He smiled softly and set down the pen down on the table. Her heart skipped a beat when she glanced down at the sketch again. She couldn't help but laugh; were her lips really that plump? But even in their size, the smile they held was stunning. She wondered if everyone in Asgard smiled so genuinely that they never had to apply their lipstick of lies to mask them; how else would he know how it looked like to capture it in ink?

"I hope you know," said Natasha, tracing a finger along the lines, "that I think the same for you too, Loki. That you ought to find your peace. That you'll be truly happy again. And you won't be alone."

When she looked back at him, though, she felt her blood run cold.

Loki was crouched over slightly, his hands upon his knees. But she saw the strain in his muscles as he held his knees stiffly, how braced his thin shoulders were, how his head was bowed as if in pain.

She immediately dropped the notebook and fell to her knees in front of him, putting her hands upon his shoulders. They were terribly thin, as stiff and sharp as stones. She tried to shake him enough to rouse his attention, but he barely budged.

"Loki?" she said. "Loki, can you hear me? What's wrong?"

She could see how deeply his chest rose and fell as he gulped for air. He raised his shaking hands to press them against his ears as if to drown out the sound of her voice. She couldn't see his face in the shadows and her heart seized with apprehension.

"Loki, where does it hurt?" She cupped his face and lifted it for her to see. "Loki, what's—?"

The words caught in her throat.

An unnaturally blue sheen colored his eyes.

Before she could cry out, Loki lunged at her.