So it goes with saying that only things I own with any connection to MARVEL I bought on Ebay or Etsy. MARVEL COMICS & MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE are their own creatures and I have nothing to do with either of them aside from the fact I enjoy reading or watching them, and am grateful for the ability to play in their world. I claim nothing, and I receive nothing for this, expect the pleasure of putting something out into the world.

You can also find this story on ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN under the same title and pen name along with a place to post suggestions.

Don't forget to check out the Photobucket album listed on my profile page too.

DAY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

WEDNESDAY, MAY 2ND 2012

1805 HOURS

SUBTERRANEAN BUNKER

LOCATION UNKNOWN

NORA

He felt cold when he touched me. He's always felt cold when he's touched me. I've noticed that several times, whether there are gloves or cloth between our skins, he has always felt cold.

Not the frozen kind of cold like one would expect from an ice-cube or a pile of snow of course. I suppose it should be called cool rather than cold. He just doesn't feel warm to the touch, as if his body doesn't seem to produce as much heat as the rest of ours.

I thought at first that it might have been because I was sick with a fever, or the place we were in was just that cold outside of my room; but I've been out of the room and it's not cold enough for that. Also, I've been around him a lot, and I don't see any signs of sickness in either of us to explain it.

He is just not warm. So I used that knowledge to empower myself. In my mind, living things are supposed to warm when they touch you, so the cool things aren't alive and somehow that made it okay.

It's a lie I can tell my condition, to give me the courage I need. It's pathetic, I know, but it works.

It let finally me feel skin! I've wanted to do that for years. I've always wanted it, it's all I wanted. Even with this fear crippling me. I'd dream of it, and it was so beautiful it would always leave me waking up crying.

Those dreams were wonderful because I could touch people in those dreams. I could hold hands or high-five someone and pat their shoulder and it was okay, there was no fear! Sometimes I would just dream that I was pressing my palm to another, nothing else and I could hold that for hours, I could feel every detail, right down to the sweat and the pulse and the lines of their fingertips under mine.

Those dreams were what made me fight it. I wanted it gone more than anything. I wanted it more than my memories. If that was the price to hold someone's hand, then I would never remember.

Those dreams gave me as much hope as heartbreak. A part of me always needed to be able to touch people again.

So the fact that it was his skin that formed the first lingering impression of what it felt like in my mind, that shouldn't matter all. I wouldn't let that matter. I am determined now.

I was determined enough to handle it is long is possible, until he was the one who pulled away first.

He withdrew because he knew I couldn't handle much more. He understood my limits even if I was stubbornly trying to ignore them. He wasn't going to push me that far.

At least not in that regard.

After he pulls his hand away he lingers in front of me, offering me a soothing and understanding smirk when my immediate reaction as to take a steadying breath and let my hands come up to clutch the towel still on my shoulders, like that motion will somehow afford me some sort of protective barrier.

Once he was sure I was alright, a conclusion that he seemed to come to only after seeing that I did first he stepped a bit to the side and motions in the direction of the desk and the seat that waits for it in front of me to make use of.

But what I see more than a chair is the food on that tray beyond it. I don't know how long I've been here, but I know my body, and I know it's really hungry. Not surprisingly but still a bit embarrassingly there is something in my reaction to the sight of food that makes him chuckle. "Sit and eat, I know you must be famished."

Well, he isn't wrong. I think being so stressed made me forget about my appetite, but the smell of food has made my stomach feel like it's going to start eating itself in rebellion if I don't give it an alternative and quickly. He said famished but the word I would have gone with is starving.

I can't blame my stomach for its reaction either, because under the scrutiny of my eyes it looks like a small feast has been spread out before me.

There is a bowl of what looks like roasted pumpkin seeds, a plate of at least a dozen flaky pastries set in a white sauce with sprigs of dill, and if I had to guess, I bet they are stuffed with something. Another steaming mug of what I recognize as the same drink from before, the Wassail. A tray of triangles that look to be dark chocolate tarts with pomegranate seeds, and of course the container of those golden-colored apples from earlier.

There is also a plate set out, waiting patiently for me to make use of it and the bundle of utensils that sits on it wrapped in a cloth napkin. It makes me wonder a little if this food came from a restaurant somehow because it just doesn't seem to fit here.

But as interesting as that puzzle may be, thinking about it won't fill my empty stomach any quicker. I'm hungry enough that I don't even bother asking if it's safe. If I have an allergic reaction to it, I'll just summon some courage and ask Loki for some of my medicine. I imagine since 'Clint' told him everything else he probably told him about that sulfate allergy too.

After filling my plate I find out I was right about the pastry. My knife splits it open and my fork peels a piece away to a better view to judge the ingredients.

There is salmon, which with the first bite I find out has been smoked before being rolled in a white dill sauce. The crust of the bread has a buttery taste, and I can see pieces of egg and asparagus. My tongue also recognizes onion, mustard, mayonnaise, cream cheese and lemon. There also seems to be a light layer of salt and pepper that decorated the top of the fish before they stacked the rest and wrapped in its breaded shell. It's absolutely delicious! I don't even care if it's a bribe.

I devoured the first one so quickly, that I actually went to spear another bite on my fork only to realize I had nothing left on the plate, and would have to get another one. There wasn't a moment that went unobserved.

But instead of making fun of me for it like he had every right and opportunity to, he merely smirked a little beyond his goblet and pushed the platter closer to me.

I appreciate the gesture, but there is something else that catches my attention and he notices that too, commenting on the fact that I am worrying my lip a little. "What is it?"

My question sort of answers itself, which is convenient because I don't know how to ask it exactly. As he asked his question he lowered his goblet, and my eyes followed it. "You want some of my wine?"

I'm immediately filled with a strange sense of inadequacy at those words, like I didn't even have the right to ask for that, or imply that I wanted to ask but now that it's out in the open I have to say something in explanation. The best I can think of is, "If it's not an imposition..?"

"Hm..." Is the first semblance of a response I get from him if you don't include the wide smirk and chuckle "No, it is fine." He adds seeing my apprehension, before he lets his eyes glance around, clearly seeking something.

"But I suppose, as this will be your first re-acquaintance with Asgardian wine..." They settle on an empty Ball jar, and after a moment of consideration he reaches out and takes it in his hand. "…We should fashion you something of an appropriate glass."

If I was going to ask what he meant by that it was cut off by the visual display of it. He has the base of the glassware held in one hand by his thumb and index finger, with his palm resting under it, almost touching but not quite making contact.

The fascinating part isn't how he is touching it or isn't, it's the shimmering green light in the space between. As I watch, the hand not holding it draws away, his fingers rising to fill the space as his palm drops almost like they are pulling something, which they are!

The lid of the jar ripples and sways like a liquid, loosing its definition before solidifying again into a decorative silver band, while the spiraling teeth of the jar seem to stretch and multiply as they wrap around the flute of it in gently descending lines. As the jar shrinks further to about half its height, the bottom which except for a slight mounding in the middle maintains its shape it is drifts lower on the end of a liquid stream and solidifies into the stem.

I'm left a bit slack-jawed at the realization that I just saw him defy physics and reason, by transmuting a canning jar into a really nice looking wine glass! "So that's what magick looks like..." I didn't even realize I spoke the thought until I heard him chuckle at it. "I-I mean, I..." and the embarrassment I feel from uttering that phrase wells up like a geyser, and given the tingling in my cheeks my stutters is not the only way it shows.

"I could show you more..." The offer comes out and draws a bit of a surprised gasp from me with it, making his smirk grow even more."...if you like?"

The offer inspires an idea in me. "If I like? I-I can c-choose what I want to see?" I get another smile for him at that and an agreeing nod. "Yes, of course."

"I want to see how you did it." And a frown.