bakerstreet | A Picture is Worth... Meme.

[The original plan had been to take her out somewhere fancy for a real date — dinner and then to some artsy fartsy cinema that only showed foreign movies without subtitles — but then real life reared its ugly head and Phil had to cancel last minute. International crises tended to do that sort of thing.

That had been four days ago, and tonight was Phil's attempt to make it up to her: candlelit dinner in the safety of his apartment, his DVR cued up and waiting for them to finish pushing their meal around their plates.

(And before you ask, no, Phil did not cook. He can make breakfast, but anything more complicated than eggs and toast is beyond him. He just knows where to go to get fabulous meals to take home.)

His tie hangs loose around his neck, his cuffs rolled up his forearms, and Phil even lets himself lean his elbow on the table as he sips his wine, watching her across the detritus of their meal.] So? What's the verdict?

[ Pepper understood plans being waylaid by work. She'd cancelled more than her share of personal engagements and even just days off because of business. Working for Tony wasn't quite like handling an international crisis, but sometimes it felt comparable.

Needless to say, Pepper wasn't too let down when they had to reschedule. Nor was she at all disappointed by a quiet night as opposed to a more bustling night. She was, however, grateful that neither of their mobiles interrupted (thus far). Setting down her fork, Pepper looked form her plate across the table to Phil, a warm smile coming her face. ]

So far, so good. I think I'll have to wait on any final judgement until the evening's over.

[He shifts, his ankle knocking against hers under the table as he lets out a little huff of a laugh, one eyebrow raising slightly.]

Don't bowl me over with your enthusiasm, now.

[ A little nudge back under the table and Pepper affected a completely placid look. She glanced off to the side, then back with a subtle shrug of her shoulders. ]

There's still a chance either of our phones could ring and drag us off to deal with some emergency. So, it's best to wait until everything goes off without a hitch. So far, I'd say it's been a wonderful evening, Phil, thank you.

[One of the good things about being in the hospital, Phil supposes, is that people tend to fuss over you. Especially if they feel guilty about your reason for being there.

His apartment was leveled when one of those space-worms powered down and crushed his building, which meant that his collection of vintage comics was ruined. But somehow, he's managed to acquire a pretty impressive selection again, as each of his visitors brings a little something with them whenever they stop by. Phil still feels petty enough about the whole thing — Nick dipped his priceless trading cards in his own blood, that bastard — that he hasn't told them to stop.

Today, he's propped up in bed, idly flipping through one of the comics Clint brought by yesterday, waiting until his physical therapy session. It's not for a few hours yet, he has time to kill.]

[Bruce definitely is one of those people that feels guilty for Phil being in the hospital. In fact, he's managed to twist the whole thing into being partially his fault; if he hadn't Hulked out, if he hadn't been susceptible to what the sceptor was putting out, if he'd just left the room and put some space between him and it, there wouldn't have been that chaos. Maybe Thor could have handled his brother instead of the Hulk, maybe everything could have been stopped right then, before all the destruction to the city.

Because sure, they saved the day, but in the end, Bruce stared out at New York in ruins for the second time, and knew that he had done some of that. It didn't feel like victory.

He's not here to feel bad for himself, and he isn't here to feel bad for Phil, either; there's no pity, self or otherwise, because pity doesn't get anyone anywhere. Bruce has had a long six, seven, eight, something years to figure that out, but even before that, too. He's here to fix something, if it's broken, and to rebuild.

He knocks on the door, two taps of his knuckle, before he pokes his head in. He has a bag in his hands, simple and mostly unadorned, but purple ribbon ties the handles shut to make it look more like a gift.]

Hey. Mind if I pay my respects to the resident almost martyr?

[Phil looks up from his comic with a smile, already closing the pages carefully. He gestures for the scientist to come up, smoothing his blanket over his knees and taking a fortifying breath. It's still hard to compensate for missing half a lung these days.]

By all means. I'd like some company that isn't yelling at me to try harder, for a change.

[Phil doesn't actively dislike Gotham, but it would be one hell of a stretch to say that he liked the place. At least his makeshift office has a nice big window to let in the dim light coming from the setting sun, but with big windows comes another set of problems.

And sure enough, it's only been dark about an hour or two before Phil catches sight of a flash of red and yellow out of the corner of his eye.

Sighing softly, he stands and heads over to the window, pushing it open, heedless of the late fall chill.]

You know, [spoken out at nothing in particular — he's pointedly not looking at the gargoyle on the corner of the building,] it's considered rude to eavesdrop.

[Tim wouldn't hold it against the agent if he ever admitted it aloud. It took a special type of person to understand why Gotham natives didn't just move away.

In any case, it was odd for members of the government to show up unexpected in the city, at least someone on the level that Coulson is. When that happens, one of the freaks usually disappears for a while, only to reappear later as part of a government Suicide Squad.

The intel gathered on Coulson suggested he wasn't just some middle management hack in SHIELD, and his own personnel file was surprisingly well-classified. Usually the Big Guy handled dealing with the spooks at this level, but he was out of town for the week, leaving everyone else to pick up the slack.

Which led to his entry into the building. Security cameras were being looped, and electronic security had been disabled courtesy of Oracle when he arrived. For all intents and purposes, they're well and truly alone.]

When your type comes to town, it's rarely a good thing.

Bought a gift for Jackson... fail., Source: dannymiller.xtreemhost.com/multimedia.html

Ah, the holidays. TJ was always tepid about the season. Spending time with his family was always a test of endurance. If there was one thing to make a person feel bad, it was being around their successful and judgemental relatives. And, well, Christmas the year before wasn't so great. TJ spent it in the hospital. It was sure to be danced around this year.

And then there was gift-giving. It still surprised TJ when people he didn't know wanted to give him things. Pretty creepy since most of them only remembered him from when he was a kid in the White House. He just sort of glanced at the other guy with a slightly bewildered look then smiled apologetically.

Aaron wasn't the best at giving presents. He never knew what to give people and the whole giving felt strange. But he tried this year to give TJ something nice even though Aaron didn't cared much about Christmas. When he notices the expression on the other man's face his own face drops.

"You hate it don't you?" he says with a sad look on his face. He'd tried his best to cheer TJ up when having to spend Christmas in hospital. Everyone needed t-shirts right? And black was a nice color...

"I just..." Wasn't expecting anything was the honest answer. TJ didn't really do the whole gift-giving thing. It wasn't as if his family needed anything and, hell, the could afford their own gifts. Just showing up for the holidays was all they ever expected of him. There usually weren't that many friends around during the holidays with whom to spend time.

After a moment, he just smiled a little helplessly. TJ was actually quite fond of t-shirts when he didn't have appearances to make. Casual was the way to go. "Thanks."

Aaron waits patiently for TJ's response, feeling more embarrassed by the minute. He knew he was rubbish at this but at least he tried. He knew that TJ probably could get whatever he wanted but it was the thought that counted, right?

"So you do like it then?" Aaron tested. "I know it's not that flashy but..." he continued but interrupted himself with a sigh. "I am rubbish at this present-giving-thing..." he concluded.

Edited 2012-11-22 04:02 (UTC)

"Black's always been my colour," he quipped. Not that he wore it exclusively, but he did find himself choosing dark clothing more often than not. And, frankly, a shirt's practical. It would get regular use until it was worn thin and that would probably take a while.

Aaron gave TJ a small smile and placed the t-shirt nearby. He then leaned back in the chair and contemplated what to say next. "So... when will you get out of here?" he asked after a moment.

There weren't many TJ would call friends. Hell, there weren't many he'd call much more than acquaintances. People who happened in the same social circle and all that. Even after learning the truth about Katerina, she was still one of the more interesting of acquaintance. And really, he's dating a superhero so maybe he should try to get used to weird things.

How much trouble would it be to make some effort at being social? Really, one didn't want to get on the bad side of a mythical monster, right? Lunch? No problem. She liked her steak raw which didn't bother TJ in the least. At least she wasn't devouring something more sinister. Well, it all went well until the wine bottle appeared and temptation spiked.

"You know I quit, right?"

"Really?"

She paused in the act of raising her water glass for a sip, the waiter having already walked away and left the bottle she'd requested behind. Her eyebrows lifted.

"No, I had no idea."

Well...she had had some suspicions. The change in his public behavior of late was what had solidified her interest in his spirit in the first place. Maybe he was reining it in a little. But it hadn't occurred to her he had given up everything.

He smiled, a little proud, but a little awkward as well. At least this wasn't some nerve-racking shindig that left him utterly desperate for a drink (or worse). Instead, he just reached for his own glass of water and held it in his hand, a subtle reminder to himself that he didn't need anything else.

"Seemed to be for the best." What with the way drinking always seemed to lead to bad behaviour that just got worse. They'd told him before in rehab that that it was best to stop drinking with the nature of his addiction to coke, but he never really wanted to until recently. Giving up booze wasn't nearly as difficult as drugs, but he'd managed so far. For the most part.

"Don't let that stop you, though."

She eyed him for a moment, face an unreadable blank, and then her eyes briefly slid to the bottle of wine just as expressionlessly.

Shame. And it was such a good year, too.

"I hope this doesn't make you think I'm trying to be the voice of temptation," she remarked as she looked across at him again, blunt.

"Not at all," he answered quickly, but in a casual tone. "I don't think the gossip blogs are talking about my sobriety. I didn't actually expect you to know." That was sincere. He might have suspect she'd noticed, but it was only a fleeting suspicion and he hardly thought she was trying to lure him astray.

"Good." She managed a sincere, if restrained and somewhat wry smile to that. "I may not be the most noble of company, but if there's one habit I've maintained it's a strict policy of non-involvement. And that includes to encouragement of vices." Of course, it including potentially saving people from their vices, also...but so much about the lives of the humans she wandered in and out of the company of, she considered none of her affair.

She waved her water in a kind of sarcastic toast before taking another sip.

"I'll ask them to take the bottle away when next the waiter comes around," she promised.

TJ couldn't help but smile in amusement. "Normally, I'd ask where the fun is in non-involvement, but it benefits me in this case and I'm nothing if not biased toward my own benefit."

He shook his head a little, the smile more genuine than practised this time. "If you want some, don't let me stop you. It isn't like the world's going to stay dry for my sake."

Edited (wrong icon, sorry) 2013-01-26 18:48 (UTC)

"It can't be easy," she had to observe. "Especially with all the parties you get invited to. But I suppose it gives you another reason to go to the clubs far less often."

Alcohol, like a lot of nominally human vices, was something she wasn't particularly interested in personally; it only took up role as a habitual prop in more of a social setting. But she did like her finer things in life, where she could have them.

TJ lifted his brows, canting his head to one side as if in agreement. It wasn't easy, that much was true. "When you stop partying, you stop getting invitations. I get a few, still, but not many. It's better. I've been catching up on reading and some weekend travel."

"That sounds almost dull," she responds, but with a genuine good-natured smile. "Though I'm sure some would say it's better for your health."

An air of the sardonic, there. A bit of understated sympathy for the fact she's sure he's hearing a lot of concern over his 'health' these days, and us probably sick of hearing it.

Not that, admittedly, at the moment she's doing much better. "But, that's enough. I'm sure a change of subject is in order." She laces her fingers together almost primly, and gives him an encouraging smile as she rearranges her face. "I dominate enough conversations, anyway. I should ask if there's anything you would like to talk about."

TJ grinned, partly glad for the change to topic, but more because it was astute of her to realise how little he liked being discussed. Sure, he'd talk about himself, but most of it was bravado and masks to hide how much a lifetime of unwanted attention affected him. Maybe he imagined that she saw that, but even if it was only a figment, he still appreciated it.

"Well, I know so little about you. How about... What do you do for fun? Are there things you can't do now that you used to enjoy?"

"Hmm, things that I can't enjoy. The bygone entertainments of yesteryears," she paraphrased his question, musingly. She only had to consider it for a beat with a thoughtful smile on her face.

An amusing thing: so many people claimed to be bored by history, and yet whenever they brushed up against a firsthand source, so many became newly fascinated. Maybe they just needed the extra incentive to make it come alive.

"Honestly, if there's one thing I really do miss," she answered, slouching in her chair elegantly with one arm over the back, "it's the days of the writers salons. All those creative intellectuals in one room, talking and laughing and making witty remarks at one another's expense. Sharing ideas and feeding off of each another's creative energy." She sighed with a note of wistful experience. "You don't get very much like it, nowadays. When you get intelligent people together it's either for a conference or they all want to show off."

TJ hummed thoughtfully, nodding as she spoke. It may not seem it, but he was actually paying close attention to what she said. It was as if he could put together the mystery that was her by gleaning little details. In truth, someone could spend a lifetime listening to Katrina and still not figure her out completely. There was something in her air and her voice that kept TJ enraptured. She was, for lack of a better description, other worldly to him.

"I think we're afraid now," he mused. "Afraid someone else will steal the idea or make money off it or something. It's a lack of trust. We want to hoard everything, including ideas, these days."

"I've noticed. You people say yours is the more materialistic age, but it isn't that. Other eras were just as wild about possessing objects of wealth and luxury." She gestured against the table, spreading her hands out, laying one flat. Her fingertips curved enough against the tablecloth when she tapped for her nails to evoke the image of claws. "But nowadays it's this frantic obsession with owning things, keeping them, hoarding them like a particularly cluttered and useless dragon's treasure. It's all about domination."

A perverse pathetic domination, she thought more specifically but did not add. The pyramids were before her time but even she could appreciate their lesson. And what did the 21st century would-be pharaohs have? Wall Street and blackberries. Commissioned memoirs and yachts. Sad, really. How far out of balance had come the sense of scale.

"Is it new? The possessiveness of ideas, I mean?" TJ wondered about that. He didn't think people, at their core, were really all that different. Creature comforts, signifiers of wealth and power, those were the things that varied between cultures and ages. But it seemed to him, at least from what he remembered, that the exchange of ideas was encouraged more at some point in the past.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Her tone turned musing, more inwardly reflective. "It's true that in the older days the idea of litigation over an idea hadn't yet been invented - so who really knows. Maybe that was the only thing standing between those old poets and play-writes and a copyright lawsuit."

It was, frankly, an admission that annoyed more than she wanted to show. She liked to believe that there really had been a time where the sharing of ideas was more free. Where theft only left creative souls mildly vexed before moving on to come up with something new.

"So really the only thing that's changed is the technology and fashion? We're pretty much the same?" There was something TJ found a little comforting about that. It was the height of arrogance to think they were somehow better than their predecessors.

It was a complicated question. But one that didn't necessarily demand a complicated answer. Some things could be summed up much more...succinctly

"At the heart?" She lifted her eyebrows slightly. And raised her water glass again, as if in toast. "Yes. People never really change," she said with a faint sardonic smile.

An observation that she generally believed held true for individuals as well as the species. But it was a rare form of evolution indeed that took less than time than a passing generation.

Oh, no doubt it was complicated. And a broad sweeping generalisation about every human being who'd ever lived couldn't possibly do them all justice, but it was still nice to hear that human nature was human nature, then and now.

"What about you? Were there ever more like you?"

Her expression flickered. And she made a point to take a slow sip of her water before responding, thought not in a way precisely that made it look like she needed time to gather her thoughts.

More like it was a subject that warranted a pause.

"There were," she said slowly, "once. Though I can't quite say how many. It was always more of a solitary race."

And her life, earlier, before she learned to take on another form, was not nearly as clear. She honestly couldn't say exactly when she began. There was a large chunk of time that was hazy at best, while her thoughts were still sentient but more...animalistic. Seasons came and went, and there was nothing but the hunt.

She set her glass down again, hands moving almost primly to her lap. She sat up especially straight, as if giving testimony or statement at an interview. And she sighed. Her voice took on a mediocre weary note.

"And now, it honestly wouldn't surprise me to learn I was the last. I haven't seen another in, oh - a very long time."

[Waking up in the middle of nowhere is sadly an all too familiar experience for Bruce, but he'd been doing so well that it's still disappointing to find himself waking up in the dirt wearing a pair of half-destroyed pants and little else. His phone is long gone and so is his wallet, which leaves him with few options but trudge across the open plain, looking for some sign of life or civilization. At this point even a phone pole would do.

When he sees the distant flicker of a campfire, he angles in that direction, doing his best to look harmless and nonthreatening.]

( Eve loves her job — she loves the excitement and the travel, loves the quiet moments in between and the adrenaline, and that she does what is necessary, what is good.

Right now, it's more of a quiet moment, campfire and looking entirely non-threatening because a beautiful woman travelling on her own in a tiny camper van doesn't raise suspicion, even if the van is stuffed full of surveillance equipment and more than a few weapons. She's here to observe and only intervene if it becomes necessary.

There hasn't been any suspicious activity, though, so when someone walks towards her camp, Eve doesn't (visibly) tense up. )

Hello?

[He only sees one person as he gets nearer, which could be good or bad. It isn't as though he has anything to steal and he's long past fearing for his own safety, but avoiding confrontation is high on his to-do list and he knows he looks like the sketchiest of sketchy characters right now.]

Hello? [Calling out when he's still far enough away that he can distinguish that the lone camper is a woman, but not so close that he can be any kind of threat.] Can you point me toward the nearest road?

( if eve were any less trained, she may have worried, felt threatened no matter how harmless he tries to appear. as is, she is more interested — a man, likely american given the accent of even just those few words, in nothing but dirty and torn trousers. it doesn't take a genius to figure out that there is some story there, and eve has been sent to gather intel. )

If you're going to try and hitch a ride looking like that, you'll only scare the locals.

[She might be surprised to learn how often people will help a guy out in straits like these. He's had to learn from experience.]

I can walk if I have to, but first I kind of need to know where I am.

[He keeps walking until there's about 20 feet between them. Enough room to give anyone a head start if he proved to be as crazy as he looks.]

Can you help me with that and the road?

There's a map in my tourist guide. ( Because she's just a tourist and harmless. And he seems awkward as hell, but rather unthreatening — not that she's going to let her guard down anytime soon regardless. )

You don't have to stay at a safe distance, I'm not going to bite.

Thanks. [He heads over to the campfire immediately, keeping it between them despite her reassurances.] I wouldn't be surprised if I look like I'd bite, but I don't.

[The moment his muscles start to relax from being locked against the chill, the first shudder hits.] I appreciate the help.

( Eve watches as he comes closer, though she's subtle about it — no weapons that she can tell, and it would be difficult to keep one hidden in those trousers, ripped as they are. )

You might as well warm up. ( Not unkindly, though it isn't really a request. ) And tell me what on earth happened to you.

[Bruce was not big on surprises, particularly not ones that started with the ground giving out under his feet. It seemed like whenever things like that happened, everything went to a raging green hell in no time.

His breath was harsh in his ears, his heart pounding too fast in response to the fight or flight adrenaline. Keep it together, Banner. Keep it together!]

[How had he ended up agreeing to have Thor over for pizza? This was obviously going to be one of the least best ideas he'd had all week.

The delivery driver was just pulling out of the driveway after dropping off a stack of pizza boxes, most of which reeked of sausage or pepperoni, when he heard the first rumble of thunder out of a previously clear sky.]

Big Guy's here!

[ Crowing over the rolling thunder, he flips open a box of pepperoni pizza and folds a slice to start chowing down on. ]

Hey, where are the wedges? Don't tell me I didn't order any because I know for a fact I did, along with every condiment on the menu.

[It was with a particularly ferocious crack of lightening- and the floor of the building might shake a little at the impact of a 600lb Norse God- that Thor alighted the balcony. He entered with an easy manner and a broad grin.]

Hail friends! [The storm outside dissipates as he hooks Mjolnir to his belt and approaches with the casual swagger of a god prince.] And Tony Stark, I am well pleased Bruce was able to coax you from your downstairs cave. [Cave, workshop. It was all very boring. Just picture him as Gaston with a book.]

Check the bags.

[With a wince at the sudden glare, he turns to greet the world's oldest frat boy.]

Thor. Hey, glad you didn't get lost. [With a brief image of Asgardian GPS - three gods arguing and pointing in three different directions.] You're just in time for the pizza.

Yeah, the 'cave'? Just going by the workshop for future reference.

[ Bruce, there are no wedges here THERE ARE NO WEDGES. ]

Pizza and nothing else, apparently.

Workshop, as you please. [with the gracious generosity of a prince]

What is a wedge and how might have you lost it? [ And he's already literally digging in to the pizza. If we're all lucky and sober, he won't even throw it on the floor. ]

I know they're in there. [Let him look. How hard can it be to find the wedges, they're right with...]

Thor, do you want to sit? Something to drink? [A dropcloth?]

They're delicious snacks and I think we've been jipped because they're not in here.

[ Piling up two or three slices of pizza, he sinks onto one of the couches and calls belatedly through a mouthful of cheese at Bruce. ]

Mrph, can you pour me a coke too?

Jipped? [ Tony, it is your fault entirely when he uses this word in public and tumblr social justice is morally outraged (tm). ]

Have you - ah [ Asgard equivalent of mead, he remembers this, he remembers -aha! ] beer? Alcohol lubricates these sharing of conquest tales more readily. [ Heh heh, lubricates. ]

Edited 2012-11-22 05:12 (UTC)

[It's like being in college all over again. He's heading for the kitchen while calling the pizza place to tell them that they just screwed up Tony Stark's order and as soon as they're done shitting themselves over that, the wedges had better show up.]

Coke, beer. Sure. [Covering the speaker for a minute.] We can talk about other things you know. How about that fight you were talking about?

Wait, what conquest? Who's Bruce been conquering and where was I when this happened?

[ He's like a hound scenting a rabbit when gossip is afoot, truly. Also YEAH, give him his wedges, non-descript pizza place. !!!

POINTING AT THE CULPRIT. ]

You better lube us both up for this story.

[ ... Heh, lube. ]

[ Just the most sympathetic look. ] I received a phone missive from friend Bruce to his lady friend. He would not speak of his conquest out if honor or humility, but I detect a hint of shyness.

There is no shame in inexperience, Bruce Banner, especially now that you are world renown for your prowess on the field of battle. Maidens will bed you by the dozens. Especially if your stamina for such things mirrors your stamina in battle.

[Bruce is spending a long time in the refrigerator for some reason; Tony your phone is signaling that you have a message.]

He got a text I meant for you.

Be there in a minute. Two beers?

[This is going to be a long night, isn't it?]

[ Somewhere between laughing and choking on his pizza, he flops sideways and drapes his knees over the armrest, kicking his heels and he holds his stomach.

VERILY, BY THE DOZENS!

Having texted Bruce back, he turns to face Thor. ]

What did the message say?

'If I have to go a night without sleep, at least you made it worth it.' Well said, I think, any maiden ought be flattered by such prose from her suitor. [ Don't mind him, just shoving pizza into his face. ]

[It's not that he's ashamed, but really, his personal life being held up to Thor's scrutiny? Steeling himself, he comes out of the kitchen with two beers and a glass of water.]

How do they woo in Asgard? [Please, let's change this subject and stop looking so freaking gleeful, Tony.]

[ Impossible. ]

You have to wonder where this other person was when he sent it. Maybe they were in the shower, that'd be my guess. Bruce?

[ Oh, no, don't you change the subject. ]

With trophies from our hunts. [ A thoughtful look. ] Perhaps a piece of Chitauri for your lady?

Then why would he send her a message by phone and not simply join her in bathing?

I'll take that under advisement, thanks Thor.

[Beers for the assholes and he grabs a slice from the only vegetarian pizza before dropping onto the other end of the couch from Tony.]

And as for where the recipient was, maybe they were immersed in their work and I was in my lab.

Why not indeed, Thor. Why not indeed, that's a good question. I think tearing a chunk off an enemy and presenting it on a silver platter sounds romantic as hell.

[ Aloofly eating his pizza. ]

Fashioned into something well-suited of course. [ He's not so barbaric as to suggest giving someone a hunk of meat. ] Your lady friend works here?

[Fortunately it's going to take more than that for him to lose his appetite.]

No. I wouldn't say works. [He wouldn't say lady friend, either.] What is a suitable token? A tiara? Maybe a chastity belt?

Obviously! Something classy, like a ... doorstop.

[ Snorting part of his beer, he coughs when a chastity belt is mentioned. Thanks a lot. ]

[ Have a backslash from Thor, Man of Iron. ]

Perhaps a necklace? Do you fear your lady is of loose ways?

[You bought and paid for that one, Tony; Bruce was just delivering.]

Everyone has a past, but people change and learn constancy. What's the Asgardian take on people who have, say, two partners?

[He's going to take small bites, suspecting that either Tony or Thor are going to make him choke on his food soon.]

[ Oof. Wow, he didn't need those shoulders connected to his body or anything, Thor. Too busy watching Bruce now, anyway. ]

[ Have a goofy grin, Tony. ] Oops.

One may have multiple partners if it is agreed upon. Though it is not a topic most would broach with all ladies. [ Sif. ]

That's my thought, too, and I like how it's working out. [He offers Tony a smile and gets up when JARVIS announces that there is a delivery person waiting outside.]

Must be the wedges. Thor, you can ask Tony about my friend. I can't wait to hear his opinion.

[ Uh oh, going to get grilled about himself-as-an-imaginary-girlfriend. What could possibly go wrong? ]

Make sure they have the barbecue sauce! [ - yelled to Bruce's retreating back. ]

[ Slightly surprised. ] Bruce has two ladies? Then this battle did him well on showing his abilities.

I admit, I had thought male men of science lacked in that way for men. [ Obviously thinking is for ladies. ]

Edited 2012-11-22 06:54 (UTC)

[Another text for you, Tony: Are we going to tell him?

He accepts the potatoes, the barbecue sauce, and the driver's profuse apologies and takes his time on the way back.]

Edited 2012-11-22 06:57 (UTC)

[ Answering with: i don't know, i'm just fielding accidental pseudo-insults up here. Trying to judge what Thor's getting at, he rubs the back of his head. ]

What are you dancing around, big guy? You look like you're having one too many thoughts.

I do not seek to insult either you or Bruce, no one questions your skills in battle. [ Considers. ] it is only, science is here, as magic is on Asgard, the workings of women.

[ Shakes it off like a dog with water and smiles once more. ] Why even think in such things, you have your fire haired lady, Bruce has dual paramours and I yet have Jane.

Actually I have one paramour. [Setting the bag of wedges in front of Tony with a pointed smile.] That's all I can keep up with.

[It's going to take more than Thor implying that he and Tony aren't real men for their interest in science to prick his pride, but the Hulk? The Hulk will probably remember.]

[ WEDGES, yesss. If Thor wasn't over, Bruce would be getting a grateful smooch right about now. ]

Okay. Firstly, I have double majors in physics and engineering, which are pretty much the most manly sciences out there and allow me to fly around blowing stuff up, and secondly, the result of Bruce tinkering around in his field has left him able to chew metal up like gum when he's in the right mood.

[ Just standing his ground from where he's still planted on his ass, feet up on the table and wedges cradled protectively on his chest in their box. Trying to stay silent on the subject of ~~anything~~ his partners is proving an annoyance. ]

On Asgard, do guys get it on with guys or are you all Shakespearean-ly shocked by that?

What you said before made it sound as though there were more than one. [ not that he thinks less of you for only one. He only has one. ]

Yes. [ Condescendingly embarrassed. ] By Aesir standards this would excuse you dabbling in the domain of women. [ Arches a brow at Tony. ] So long as the man is giving, his manhood would yet remain intact. Fields of battle see fair few women, after all.

There are, just not for me. [How generous of you, truly you are a god among men.

But he snorts a little at Thor's assessment of intact manhood and sits down, grabbing his water glass to cover his muffled snort of semi-mortified amusement.]

That's... I think that might be a little narrow in scope.

That's bullshit. You don't actually believe that, do you?

[ Thor, look how thoroughly ruffled Tony is by your assessment. 'A little narrow' his ass. ]

[ He does look a bit surprised at your outburst. ] Yes. Men have fought and died to reclaim honor after accusations of having been taken and made ergi.

It is...not so on Midgard?

You know what, no.

[Thor is not malicious, he's just... dumb. At least by the standards of the two other men in the room.]

That text you got from me was meant for a man, and I don't know what ergi means, but neither he nor I are it if it means that we aren't men for what we do in private.

[ Thor, bro, this is Tony taking your beer away because you don't deserve it. ]

You've gotta earn this back.

[ ~~Das sweet, Bruce.~~ ]

[ He might need that to help ease his mind into your life choices. ] I do not mean to accuse you- [ But you're accusing yourself. Frown. ] this is a different standard on Midgard? Such things are normal?

If this is your way, then explain it, I'd not hold an Aesir standard against non-Aesir.

[How did he end up being the one explaining sexuality to Thor?]

Let's put it this way - anyone I respect is going to say that what two men do together behind closed doors has no bearing on their worth to society or as men. None.

If you want my respect, that's how it is.

And if you want alcohol, I'd hedge your bets with whatever he says.

[ Hmph. ]

I see the wisdom of your words, friend. I cannot apply other standards to Midgard and her people. [ Booze now. Gimme. ] Wellwishes the to you and your man friend!

I appreciate that. [And coming from a guy as old as Thor, it is significant to Bruce that he's willing to accept local customs. Even if his tone is a little on the condescending side.]

I'm sure he'll appreciate your well wishes too. [Good boy, have a ~~blueberry~~ beer.]

Whatever.

[ Isn't entirely convinced Thor just doesn't want his drink back, but he slides it over reluctantly since Bruce looks mollified. He should probably use that as a role mod— ]

He does, actually. [ Jesus, it's impossible. ] I do, I mean. Appreciate you pulling your head out of your ass to trip over your terminology on my account.

[ Mm, wedges. ]

You? But what of the lady Pepper? [ Frown. Because Pepper is nice, okay?

And he is happy to have his beer back, but he means it. He'll not hold you to Aesir standards. And this will make quite a telling on Asgard. How different the mortals are. ]

[Tony get a much more open smile for actually saying it. Sure, he left Bruce to flail for a bit, but he's forgiven.]

Pepper and I have an understanding. It's working. [And he likes that Thor thought about her, even if he probably wouldn't like the reasoning as much.]

[ He was kind of huffy and offended, forgive him. ]

Yeah, and I'm pretty sure I never said I wasn't with Pepper. [ He's not sure it's physically or emotionally possible to escape how he feels for her. ] She's my girlfriend and — [ erk, first time saying it and it had to be to Thor ] — Bruce is my boyfriend.

You get to deal with that on your own time.

[ Considers this. ] Then in Misgard culture, your prowess must be even more well regarded to have both a female and a male lover? [ Tony, he thinks you are just a wonderful little creature, brother in arms. ]

A fine thing, then, well reminds me of Loki even more than before. [ Guilt, sorrow, anger, sheepish ] without the penchant for world domination.

[Excuse Bruce while he takes a moment to absorb the word "boyfriend." Barring some obfuscatory snark about a return to high school, he can't think of a thing to say.

Then Thor compares Tony to Loki and he breaks out of his surprise to laugh.]

Do I want to know how this reminds you of Loki?

God. [ Gesturing hopelessly to Thor as he addresses Bruce. ] It's like he wants me to take away all the nice things I give him.

[ A negligent handwaved. ] Of the way he was before the madness. Intelligent, quick with words, often sharp ones. There were accusations leveled of him preferring both sexes. [ And a negligent shrug because his brother may be a bag of dicks, but he is a competent warrior. ]

Are you going to reach down his throat to take the pizza back? [Also, give him some of those wedges, you hoarder. He leans over to pluck a couple out of the box before addressing Thor.]

Before the crazy? And how long ago was that? Because from what I saw, it had some deep roots.

No one's surprised by anything Loki does, he's all over Wikipedia with it. The news. Legends? [ — clarifying for Thor's sake and very pointedly not delving into any similarities the Norse god can think up.

... Bruce, you do not have permission to eat those wedges and words will be had later. ]

Most if the legends are... Not truths. We spoke falsehoods to the humans to try and outdo each other. [ Translation: I never wore a dress. ]

Only one of your Midgard years or less. [ He's not great with mortal time. ]

[Boyfriend wedges, deal with it. Tony shouldn't be surprised; Bruce has been snagging food from him since the Shawarma Palace.]

A year. I'm sorry to break this to you, but that kind of thing? That doesn't appear overnight.

[ He's not surprised and he'd gladly give up anything Bruce wanted, but not those damned wedges. Those delicious little potato snacks are going to DRIVE THIS FAMILY APAAART. ]

Bag full of cats.

[ Tony said nothing, mhmm. ]

Truly, a year. [ Obviously he knows his own brother. ]

Tsk, it was meant as a compliment, Stark.

[Now he knows where he stands in the order of things - just below snack foods. Mmhm.]

Moving on from our discussion of just how long your brother's been chewing-the-carpet crazy, how is he doing back home? Tell me someone took my recommendation on just locking that muzzle on permanently.

Meant, intended, failed to hit the mark of ...

[ Shrugging, he shares his pepperoni slices with Thor. No hard feelings, you blond jerk. ]

Chewing the carpet? [ What?

F R O W N] My brother is still of Asgard, engaging a muzzle permanently would cause far too much suffering. The All Father has his punishment well in hand.

[Don't hurt your head, Thor; thinking's hard.]

And you're getting back and forth pretty easily now. The tesseract has that under control for your Aesir?

[ It's not fair that Bruce gets more attractive the meaner he is, even in dismissive sentiment. Holding his tongue over here. ]

[ If you both start going at it, he's going to watch. Fair warning. ] Not so much under control, but permissive to my travel. Though I admit to spending more time here than necessary.

[They will not be going at it,thanks. At least not until Thor is ensconced in a guest room snoring his Asgardian ass off.]

That's another thing I'm glad to see off this planet. I know Selvig regrets its loss, but we aren't ready for that kind of power yet.

[Where's his pizza, he got sidetracked.]

[ Thor, you are a dudebro but that is one party you aren't invited to. ]

It's not as if we need it right now.

[ Handing over a veggie slice of pizza off his own pile, he knew you'd want another. ]

[And he's scorfing down another slice when he realizes.] Your slice is lacking in meat. The maker of pizzas was lax. [Enjoy explaining vegetarianism to him.]

Nor will you ever be ready for the tesseract. The Aesir are not. There is a reason it remains locked in my father's vault with none but him seeking her use.

[Not even going to try. He eats meat, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.]

No, I ordered one pizza without meat. It's a preference.

[Loki's all the proof Bruce needs of that.]

I won't argue. Not even scientific curiosity is worth having that thing around.

He's weird like that, Thor.

[ Slowing down on his own food, not exactly a ravenous god. ]

Let's talk about something other than the tesseract, that thing's bringing the conversation down.

[He's already changed subjects, Tony, he's fixated.]

You prefer no meat? No meat at all or only no meat on this occasion?

[This is a preferable subject.]

I ate shawarma with you, remember? I just don't have to have it all the time. Let me guess, it isn't a meal without meat in Asgard?

You ate my shawarma, too.

[ Muttering as he sips his drink. ]

[Dude, he was too busy scorfing his down to notice. Also post battle tunnel vision.]

At least three types of meat. Often a boar apiece, if there it is a victory feast. Though daintier cuts for the women. [He isn't counting Sif in that number. She'd probably scold him either way.

And then his thinking face is on again.] If all is well for a man to lay with a man on Midgard, what of related men? Brothers, for example. Not related by blood, of course. [Because obviously blood relations would be the only concern here.]

[Don't make him steal more wedges.]

I'm always hungry after a change. Think about it.

[Good thing he was taking small bites or he definitely would have choked at Thor's question.]

Uh... I think I'm not qualified to touch that with a ten foot pole.

[ Facepalming, he rubs his eyes to try and deal with Thor's curious questions. Man, now he misses chatting about the tesseract. ]

I'd say it's fine if you're not related.

[ Avoiding looking at Bruce because a certain god is about as subtle as a foghorn. ]

Hm. [Says in that considering way that a frat boy might when he realizes that some of the beaches in Cancun on Spring Break are nude beaches. This is Aesir spring break.

And goes back to eating pizza.] Midgard. I like it.

[He'd rather get back to details of his own sex life than consider Thor's oh so subtle train of thought. Thor must have other brothers, right? Other adopted brothers, right?

Sometimes, scientific curiosity is a curse.]

Do you have many adopted brothers?

[ WHY WOULD YOU ASK THAT

WHY

WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO KNOW ... ]

Christ.

[To Tony] Not a brother of mine. [Said with the most straight, guileless face ever.

And then to Bruce] No. I have no other brothers, aside Loki.

[Oh. Oh god. He sets his pizza aside and springs up like a jack in the box.]

Anyone need another beer?

[He needs to go stick his head in the freezer and hope that he can freeze that image and hide away where it need never be examined again.]

Yes! Beer, more of that. Thor, think fast!

[ Tossing a potato wedge at his face. Yup. ]

[Almost lazily catches it and eats it. Chewing thoughtfully. Hmm.

Beer? Alcohol is celebratory, so...]

I am well pleased at your acceptance of my decision.

[Bruce throws Tony a wide-eyed glance on his way out of the room. Acceptance?

This is all your fault, Tony!]

Tony, you need a portable keg for nights like these.

[ Damn, Thor. SWEET CATCH. ]

Uh, yeah. Accepting is what we do. None of this is a major deal, you know that. Right?

[Norse God of Potato Wedge Catching.

Also he talks with his mouth full.] I do now. [And hoists the beer.] To my brothers-in-arms! [If he ever starts crushing cans against his forehead, point him to the nearest fraternity party.]

Ah- what is a keg?

[A keg is a way to more efficiently deliver beer into Thor's face until he hopefully passes out.]

A large container for beer.

[Screw being Martha Stewart, he just brings two six packs out of the kitchen with him and sets them on the coffee table.]

[ Saluting him with his remaining drink, he knocks it back and waits for Bruce to bring over the rest. ]

Help yourself, by the way. You're staying the night so Fury won't be breathing down your neck in the morning.

I do not think he could reach my neck to breathe down it. [Thor said, somewhat unsure. Why would he wish to do such a thing, anyway?]

You are quite generous. I hope one day to bring you all to the golden halls of Asgard and return this generosity. [Booooze.]

Fury would bring in a step stool if he had to.

That's... yeah, thanks Thor. [So not wanting to go there and deal with scrutiny regarding Aesir standards of masculinity or a whole boar with every meal for that matter..]

We are so going to party in Asgard.

Excellent! [Thor literally booms the word. Booms. It rings through the tower. Probably the whole of upper Manhattan hears it. Like some kind of godly fraternity brother decree.

And then he's throwing an arm around each of you somehow and squeezing.]

[That's some Reed Richards shit there, Thor.]

Tony. [Sotto voce] We're gonna talk.

In Asgard, maybe.

[ Laughing, he thumps Thor on the back and idly wonders if he's going to go deaf. ]

Jesus, sit down, you're going to crush us.

[With a final backpat, he lets them both go.]

All is well and all will be well. I am glad the idea pleases you.

I'm glad the idea pleases someone.

[Sitting down and picking up his pizza before wondering if Thor is going to ask him if Midgardians are okay with gods and horses too.]

I might have a cold that day.

[ Stretching to work out the kinks put in his back by a damned heavy Asgardian, he slides a hand into Bruce's hair as he passes and leans down to steal a peck on the lips. ]

You'll be fine, trust me.

[ In search of chips in the cupboard! ]

It is quite warm in Asgard. [Helpfully. And the horse story? Not true. Fandral made that one up. Humans will believe anything someone writes on a rock, tsk.]

[Okay, that was a quick transition from essentially coming out to PDA. He's blinking a little too quickly before giving another tight smile.]

Great. Nice to know it'll be warm. Is the gravity heavier there? [It would explain the strength and weight discrepancies, but also make being himself there uncomfortable.]

[ What, you think Tony isn't still reeling in bad vibes? They're sloughing off fast, but he's not going to pull any punches around Thor. Is better inclined to throw more of the PDA variety than he ordinarily would be.

Also, that's some good beer.

Glancing over, his attention flits to Bruce and he has to wonder at the nature of that question. Hrm. ]

What is gravity? [Seriously. What?

He probably won't be too thrown off by PDA. These aren't Aesir, after all. And really, this just means they'll have to man up around any Norse Homo PDA.]

[Not even getting into a full definition with Thor.]

The force that gives the world an up and a down. On our moon that force is weaker than it is on Earth.

[Also he never wants to hear the phrase "Norse Homo."]

[ Dubbing this evening NORSE HOMO to confuse people out of context when he relates it. ]

It's what glues you to the ground, makes you drop like a sack of Aesir puppies.

[ Tossing a bag of chips at Thor, he sinks down next to Bruce to share another. ]

[Don't ever look on the Internet, then.]

Ah. [Frowns.] I do not think there is a difference. [Here's Thor eating chips. He's very happy and crunchy.]

[He tries not to google Avengers. It disturbs him.]

Okay. That's... ah... good. [He's mostly taking chips because Tony's sharing.] We should bring Steve. They'll love him.

[ Stoically sticking with Bruce on that one. ]

Everyone loves Steve. The Aesir might even adopt him.

I'm sure they will enjoy all of your company. We will eat and drink and fight and you will make your ancestors proud. [He's just so happy about this idea.]

[Muttered] It's like you knew my ancestors.

The Aesir can't have him. We're bringing him back if we take him with us. We'd never be forgiven for losing a national treasure.

[ Laughing along with Thor and giving a shrug when losing Steve is brought up (not for the first time) his hand slides behind Bruce on the couch to rest in the small of his back in a casual enough brush, the same one that Pepper finds herself chaperoned by when they're out at a gala or some other event.

Only now, it's transferred itself to lend knowledge of his support to Bruce when his parents, however briefly, are touched upon. ]

Thor can take us all to his house for a sleepover, we'll call it mission reconnaissance to be on the safe side.

Verily. We'll call a hunt! Clint Barton's skills will shine in that, I think. [And he wants all of his friends to have a Moment.]

If we're bringing Clint, we have to bring Natasha. [He gives Tony a thin-lipped smile and leans back into that support. There are teammates and there are partners. He's glad to have both.]

Let's do it. Fury will go nuts if we all disappear off the face of the Earth at once.

I'm almost tempted to say we should, but he really would flip a continent.

[ Giving Thor a considering look. ]

I'd take a portable suit just because, obviously, but how do you think a mortal would hold his own on one of those hunts? Not being a hawk-eyed prodigy with a bow and arrow, I mean.

With your suit, I'd not think you'll have a problem keeping up. [And he's just grinning so brightly at the prospect of his Midgard shield brothers coming to Asgard. They will be interesting to watch as they behold the golden halls.]

Director Fury can be at ease for the few days that we shall spend in Asgard. Heimdal will keep watch.

I'm pretty sure that's not going to be enough to keep him from shooting fire from his eyepatch.

[This description is chosen very deliberately. Yes, Bruce is trolling Thor. He's not even sorry.]

It'd be kind of unfair to wear the suit, wouldn't it? [ Shrugs. He gets the feeling hunting on Asgard would be like something out of a medieval documentary.

With imagery of a laser-eyed Nick in tow, Tony snorts and sips his drink, arm relocating to drape behind Bruce on the sofa. ]

Armor is armor, Tony Stark. [Just the friendliest tap on your shoulder with the back of his hand.

Then-]

Fury is... truly able to do that?

You heard him. Bring the suit. [Weirdest pizza get together ever - sex ed, TMI, and planning hunting trips in Asgard. Too bad they'll probably expect the Hulk to join the fun.]

Fury? What do you think? Doesn't he look like he could?

Don't whine when I neglect to go easy on you.

[ He could say a lot of things about Nick Fury, or he could find some dip for the chips. The latter is way more important right now, leaving Bruce to his trolling. ]

Ah, friend Stark, I remember a standstill fought to when the good Captain and we did spar together. [Yes. Leveling a small mountaintop is a spar. More of a warm-up, actually.]

[Oh sure, leave him with Thor. They get along so well.]

I'm not sorry I missed that. I'll probably take a pass on the hunting trip, too. You two have fun bonding with Clint. Or I could stay and you could invite Fury. There must be something he can shoot an RPG at.

It was ... dramatic, as fights go. I'll say that.

[ Opening cupboards looking for snacks, he keeps a weather eye on Bruce's reticence. ]

You really don't want to go and stay with a bunch of people who love fighting and prize strength so highly? Seems like shooting yourself in the foot to me, the Hulk might love it.

Truly, Bruce, your berserker state would draw admiration and no little envy from the Aesir. Ballads to your skill would echo in the golden halls for some time.

And it might be a trans-realm political slight to turn down such an invitation. [ He's grinning while he says this, though. ]

He might love it, but I don't like letting him out just to play.

[Wow, Thor, that was actually rather manipulative. Bruce didn't know he had it in him.]

The Other Guy might create some political slights of his own. [Sucker punching the heir to the throne for instance.]

I'll bring you back a souvenir.

[ Always super helpful like that. Also knowing not to push Bruce on this. ]

You would truly decline? [ He sounds hurt, Bruce, genuinely hurt. The Aesir wouldn't mind you punching Thor while Hulked out because author would just attempt to wrestle you. In the not gay way. ]

[Oh don't do that, you big Norse golden retriever.] If I went, it would just be me, not the Other Guy. I'm not very impressive on my own.

[And you'd better bring him some dip, Tony.]

[ No dip for you unless you agree to have fun. ]

You're plenty impressive. Thor, tell him he's great, he never listens to me.

It is as you like, Bruce. You are formidable in your own right and it would be my deepest and most humble pleasure to have you in Asgard. [God. He's just so earnest.]

[God. He's just so earnest.]

How can I turn that down? Besides, I'd regret it the whole time the party was going on if I didn't go. I'd be wondering what Asgard was really like. [Stupid insatiable curiosity.]

["You're in the wind." Fury had promised it and he'd followed through, but after New York, Bruce wasn't sure where his path was going to take him next. Away was his only thought.

There was a Stark phone in his duffel bag, although the battery and SIM card were in his pocket. He followed the train tracks into the west and weighed the amount of money in his wallet with the trouble of finding a motel that wouldn't ask for ID at check-in.]

[ A little way down the railway, the tracks run parallel to a stretch of old road. Parked, there, in a non-descript car (without markings: rental, then) is one familiar redhead.

She's leaning on the hood of the car, sunglasses perched on her nose. When he comes a little closer, Natasha smiles, her mouth quirking into what might be a greeting (but with her, it's hard to tell where something stops and begins). ]

Need a lift?

[His posture is immediately wary, but he finishes walking the last yards to lean his hip against the car's front fender, settling his bag on the hood.]

That depends. Are you here to persuade me to do something for SHIELD again?

No. [ There's something a little amused in the set of her eyes more so than her mouth. She shrugs, tipping a shoulder. ]

You weren't picking up your phone.

That's because I wanted to drop off the map for a while. [His own amusement is just as deceptive as his calm was the first time he met her.] How did you find me?

[ Natasha pauses, pushes her sunglasses up so that they rest on her head. The expression on her face is friendly and the set of her shoulders loose, but it's a shared knowledge between them — it becomes second nature, after a while, to pretend to be one thing and be another. ]

I guessed, [ she says, sounding almost a little sheepish, and it's the truth. She did.

Then again, for Natasha, nothing is every really anything as lucky as just a guess. ] I'm good at that.

[He gives her a long, measuring look before nodding. She's seen his "worse" and she's here anyway.]

I'm getting too predictable, I'll have to work on that.

Go ahead, Miss Romanoff, give a drifter a ride.

Edited 2012-11-22 08:05 (UTC)

( picture it. miami. 2012.

or - no, it's manhattan. anyway, it's not sicily.

in any case, bobbi is sitting in the break room nursing a mild hangover from last night's thanksgiving dinner, gazing into a cup of coffee. leftover cheesecake tempts her, but she doesn't want to deal with the repercussions in her stomach so soon. most of last night was a blur - a moment of weakness, honestly, she'll be back to normal soon - so bobbi suspects she has missed a thing or two of importance.

she hardly lifts her head when she hears someone else enter the room. )

[maybe sharon shuts the door to the break room with more force than necessary and maybe she plops a manila folder onto the table, but, hey, she's not the one with the hangover here. sliding into a chair across from bobbi;] alright... spill.

[light fingers flip open the folder and through its pages, a brow cocked as eyes skimmed over its content.]

[ It wasn't particularly often that he was called back to consult for cases by them anymore. Not after Scotland Yard. Not after everything that happened there. Not after re-establishing himself with the NYPD. But occasionally, still occasionally. And when a consult for something like that came in, well. For a man who looked to escape boredom and was now also escaping what he'd once used to escape the former, it was drop dead stupid to not take an offer like that up.

Two weeks later and the middle of a multi-national, treasonous murder mystery was well in the midst, and he didn't feel as though he'd been so alive in positively ages. It was a good thing Watson hadn't come, because Sherlock had been as manic with the sheer pleasure of having to utilize his cavernous brainpower as one might think, and right now she'd likely be giving him tea or a smoothie and trying to tell him to calm down. He wasn't sure how his current, temporary partner - handler? - was going to take his particular mood at two in the morning, knocking on the door to her hotel room, one over from his own, files in hand and eyes bright with discovery, but to be honest, he wasn't really thinking about it. He was thinking about the case. About what he'd just discovered within it. ]

[ Eve opens the door with a gun in one hand. Her hair's quite a mess, but her silk pyjamas are wrinkle-free and rather fetching, given that they're pyjamas. She hadn't been awake, but Eve's always been a light sleeper and his knocking isn't exactly subtle. ]

Mr Holmes. [ Stepping back to let him inside of her room. She's going to assume he has a good reason to wake her up. If he doesn't, maybe she can make a case for shooting him. ]

[ He is wholly unfazed by the gun, the mess, the pyjamas, or her potential attitude. ]

The fruit! The fruit he'd claimed to have purchased before the event - were it that old, it would be rotten, but look, it's at its ripest. The man is lying. Lying about the fruit! Lying about the crime and murder. He knows something more than he's letting on. [ is it two in the morning? he has no idea. ]

Edited (they are right next to each other okay) 2012-12-09 07:59 (UTC)

[ she steps back to let him in, though she doesn't set the gun aside. ]

How do you get from the fruit to the murder? [ there's-- timeline things. she'd make the connection faster if she were more awake, but it takes a moment of rubbing her face with her free hand and letting his words run through her head again before she nods. ] Ah.

Avelo's, corner store - the fruit was discount, made for a quick sell, but purchased at a later date than would be normal for such fruit as a result. There happened to be a particularly large boom across the local markets, all of them have been selling them cheaply - I assume they're attempting to prevent having pounds of the stuff begin rotting on their shelves. [ there is a lot of gesturing, specific syllables within words being emphasized at random. ] I'm not sure what arrangement he has with the shopkeeper, but he wasn't there when he originally stated.

[ he pulls a small bit of crumpled paper out of his pocket between forefinger and thumb and waves it a couple of times, then sets it on whatever clear, flat surface is within a step of where he is now. ] Also, receipt from his left jacket pocket. Two days later than the first date given.

[ eve is an excellent agent and an even better aide-slash-secretary to mallory because she is, inter alia, patient — at least to some extent, about some things. in this case, it means that she simply waits him out until he's finished, though part of that may also be that she's simply rather tired still. one of the consequences of being woken up only a few hours after one has gone to sleep. ]

So his story doesn't check out at all.

[ lucky lucky you, sherlock is well in the throes of intellectual discovery at the moment and as yet has not quite set his observing excellence on 'human' settings again just yet ]

Not remotely. While there are two other legitimate suspects and I have yet to uncover a convincing motive beyond the obvious fiscal reasoning, I would wager that the bold-faced lie warrants some follow-up.

[ she admires his mind for the asset that it is, but that doesn't mean that she won't gladly take the respite from having his observing skills turned on her. stifling a yawn: ] Did you want to follow up on it right now?

[ 'right now', indicating some problem with the time. do you not normally conduct business at -- oh. well. ] He's likely asleep. [ whoops. like you were. ] Have you come up with any more likely motives?

[ no. no, she does not normally conduct business at two in the morning, unless a mission necessitates it. ]

He likely is. [ so dry. well-observed, sherlock. ] And I haven't. [ because she's been asleep, fancy that. ]

[ well whoops, he said. (sort of). no need to run it in.

He moves over to sit on the edge of a couch, mentally picturing all the files and information in front of himself and getting into the correct mindset with the ease one might walk into a bit of fog. ]

If, given that the main understood reason for the man's murder was indeed the money, then why would the arguable absence of the random article from the desk? Startlingly similar to a trophy. The previous kill brings the money here, then this man is killed - I admit it appears appropriate, but it could simply be manipulation. Via another person. [ Gesture, gesture. ]

[ Running a hand through her hair, before she settles on the bed, legs curled under her. Fine, Holmes. She's just about awake now. ]

If someone's framing him, with what motive?

What is the reason anyone has for framing anyone else? [ Obviously. ] To be exonerated of the murder themselves. Preemptively pointing blame in another direction.

But why him? Convenience?

[ she often lurks in shadows on these nights, not wanting to frighten anyone who might be awake in town. the run leaves red breathless, panting, and she thinks it time to curl up in her own bed. the wolf sits, when she can see or smell no one, under a streetlamp, watching the moon disappear. immediately, her shadow on the wall shifts from canine to human form, no need for her cloak today. ]

[Ever since magic returned to Storybrooke and the spark of life returned to August's wooden body, he kept himself hidden. No one in the town would give him a second look, being a fully grown wooden man, but he can't bring himself to be seen anyway. Not when he would be a disappointment, when Blue would look at him with pity for his inability to just be good, when Gipetto would be distraught.

He's listened in, he knows Emma isn't around. He'll wait, he decides, until she's rescued. There's nothing he can do like this anyway, creaking and fragile.

It's only nights when he comes back into town from the woods, collecting anything he might need or want, even if what he might need or want is a glimpse of his father in the window or Henry going up to Mary Margaret's apartment with David. Now is one of those nights, in which he was trying to sneak into the inn, to get some things from his room.

At the sound of feet, he hid, and just in time to see Red change. Two people thinking they were alone.]

[ she catches her reflection in a window as she rises to straighten herself out. not that this was necessary - more for personal vanity than anything else. ]

Ah. [ a spot of dirt on her cheek, a little blood on her chin. she rubs those away with the heel of her palm. sometimes she simply wakes up in her room, smelling of the woods at dawn - other times she likes to look at the town just as the pinks and oranges of the sun color the walls and begin to cast shadows. she curves her head to the side to hear a pleasant crack in her neck and sharply turns, a scent filling her nostrils.

that's familiar. ]

[Well that's not good. He knows enough to know that a werewolf's scent of smell is impressive to say the least, so that sniff and turn would make him tense--if he could tense anymore. He tries not to move an inch, not make a sound, hiding in the shadows. Should he need to, he would break into a run.]

That's a nice look on you.

[ Can you hear the smirk in his voice, because it should be pretty obvious even over the radio. It's not an entirely unusual situation - for the moment everything is still in standby, not even fully in surveillance, because none of the targets have shaken the more conventional methods yet, nor do they show any signs of being capable of it - but that just means there's less reason not to try and have a little fun with it. And by proxy, whatever partners happen to be involved.

And he does enjoy messing with partners. It doesn't necessarily lead anywhere, but it's fun in the meantime. ]

As nice as what I usually wear or nicer?

[The voice that responds quietly through the bug in her ear matches her body--feminine, petite, not at all representative of the man behind the curtain. No one expected him to be able to master forgery quite this well when he was called in to the secret service out from Afganistan. They thought the somnacin would kill him or he would end up pissing off a superior officer to the point of court marshal. They never expected a London-born ground combat soldier to be able to be anything but, much less a woman--and a convincing one at that.

That only showed how much anyone really knew about him.

He's very good at it, and it's effortless to hold the illusion. All curves and supple skin he--she leans against the bar with a glass of rose wine, seemingly passive. And if she adjusts herself so that maybe, just maybe, 007 will get a nice view of her ass.]

[ Bond was, for his own part, fairly skeptical of the process as a whole, initially. He's all too aware of the fragility of a mind, first-hand knowledge both in his own favour and out contributing to a sense of uncontrollable circumstances in general with such a setting.

But there's not much to do in this line of work when you disagree with a given mission. Comfort zones aren't really a thing that are considered very often, at least in as much as they differ from a personal set of strengths or weaknesses. Luckily, most people tend to be out of their comfort zones when dealing with their weaknesses, so for the most part there's a nice overlap. Occasionally, not as much. However, since becoming slightly more acquainted with the process, it's not all that different than anything else. Routine, even if given only a handful of times and in an occupation that rather excises any form of routine as a whole, means the world.

There's an amused pause - there are a number of ways to communicate in a pause, and people such as they are good at most of them, right? - before his response comes back over the connection. ]

Hard to tell. I don't recall the last look very well, it was so short. Effective, at least.

Effective. I'll take it.

[There is plenty of time to kill, and Eames had known it from the start. This one's a slow processor, someone who likes to go through all the motions in reality. He's seen that type before, and will see it again and again, someone whose dreams mirror reality except for key points.

Like a movie skipping the monotony of going up stairs, but sticking with every draw of a card game.

It's not time for him to go over and flirt, to invite him back to his room. Not enough meticulous attention to events has passed for the mark yet, and that would be suspicious.

So, for now, he continues to sip at his flirty drink with plump red lips. She looks at her cellphone (a marvelous invention for criminal and secret service alike, in a world where talking to yourself is no longer out of the ordinary), not sparing Bond a glance.

It's all for the best, even as she goes through her purse and drops her lipstick.

She's just going to have to bend over now, isn't she?]

[ Effective is about right, he surmises, watching the other man lift her hips and bend herself over just so, honestly. It shouldn't be allowed for operatives to so such thing to one another, particularly when one is able to assume literally whatever the other desires in a potential 'mate'. Not that Bond would himself consider it 'mating' - there are far too many offspring, &c. involved in such a simple act as coitus, but even so.

His voice when he replies again is considerably lower. ]

Having fun?

Depends on your definition of fun. Fun would imply an action, and we really are just waiting around.

[He mutters as if he's talking to herself, with no more emphasis than if she were reciting a grocery list for the future. She smooths her dress once she stands again, careful to run her hands along her shape. The lipstick had been replaced, and it's a pucker to paint those lips red again. Then a cellphone is out, today's perfect attempt at normality for spies and nutters alike.]

Would you say you're having fun, Bond?

[ You could try and blame it on the recent return from a mission - there were occasions that just hit too close and some that just dragged on and on and the occasional one here and there that managed to redefine the '-al hazard' field in the forms.

You could try and blame it on the fact that it was Friday, and those were historically difficult for some reason.

You could try and blame it on -- any number of things. The point was effectively that he was just... tired. Perhaps too long, indeed. Today, at least. It explained why he had elected to eschew the immediate debriefing in favour of a local bar where he happened to speak a passing version of the language - this wasn't where the mission had started. There were agents who spoke this language, and he wasn't one of them. It happened to be enough to get him what he was looking for, or at least enough of it to where he was deciding he didn't actually care.

The suspicion that this might test the limits of boundaries hadn't even crossed his mind in the least. ]

A personal visit?

[Eve Moneypenny is a professional. She gets to work on time, focuses on the job at hand and keeps herself present and attentive. A good professional, though, also knows when it's time to let loose, to get a drink, to find a dark corner and warm company. It's a careful balance, meticulously specific in their cases, with the national security information they are privy to, but it's a dance worth taking. A burnt out worker bee is no use at all.

It's how she found herself in this Catalan bar lit by candle and flickering florescence, in a low cut dress that went down to her knees to keep away the strays. Too much thigh could be too much of an invitation in places like this, and she'd rather not spend her night off fighting off handsy drunks.]

Personal enough. Seeing as you don't speak Catalan well enough, I assume the same for you.

[She can speak it though, and orders herself a whiskey on the rocks.]

[ And while Bond is generally quite professional, he is by no means the consummate version of professionalism that she manages to be. And right now, he is not at his most professional. He is, in point of fact, at somewhere within his medium range for 'buzzed-bordering-on-beyond-that', and starting to enjoy the way the quiet cacophony around him blurs together until he decides to pay it mind once more.

He watches all this, then indicates that she should sit with a minute gesture. Why the hell not. They'd both been involved, and he certainly wasn't going to stop anytime soon. ]

Debriefing.

It must have gone well.

[She's being sarcastic, of course, a hint of a wry smile on her lips. She's close enough to him, knee to knee once she sits, to smell the alcohol on him and know that this glass is far from his first.

She drinks from her own glass slowly, aware that she may just have to carry him back to his hotel should this get much worse.]

Edited 2012-11-22 01:00 (UTC)

[ They've never really talked about it since then. There hasn't been much need to — S.H.I.E.L.D is an elite agency and it makes sense that Strike Team Delta along with their handler, individually or otherwise, are in high demand. It's three weeks in Yemen, then four in Iran; following that, an intensive three day solo-op for Natasha in the Atacama desert, tracking down a crashed satellite before MI-6 get their hands on it.

As it turns out, genetically enhanced super spies don't get sunburn. When she touches back down in New York, she sends him a quickfire text (dinner, my place?) along with the passcode to disarm her security system. He'll find her dozing in her bed, curled up on her side with a half-finished book, face-down and spread open beside her, spine cracked and a little dusty. Natasha's fallen asleep on-top of the covers in nothing much but a bathrobe and her underthings, hair damp across the spread of her pillow. A red slate of sun beams in through the windows as the day slowly sets — it paints the inside of her wrist, arm tucked under her head, in a relief of blue veins and pale skin and sharp, sharp red.

She stirs, only a little, but not enough to truly wake. ]

[Super soldier spies may not, but regular old humans do, and Phil was a little peeved to find the bridge of his nose is still tender and red, his cheeks and forehead flushed with an unhappy red as his skin tries to repair itself from the damage he inflicted on it for two months.

He gets her text while he's still in his office, wading through reams of paperwork, and he ends up staring at it for a little while, the string of numbers mocking him in their starkness.

Suddenly, his work looks less than appealing.

He packs up quickly, locking his paperwork away in his desk, shrugging into his coat and grabbing his keys to head out. He taps out a quick affirmative in response and sends it her way as he ignores the incredulous stares of some of the junior agents (yes, he's leaving before nine pm on a weekday, what of it) as he heads down to the garage to get his car. Getting into her apartment is surprisingly easy, and Phil doesn't even need to check the numbers she sent him before he taps them in. It's quiet, the lights off, and Phil allows himself a moment to hang up his coat and step out of his shoes by her front door before he goes looking for her.

When he finds her, his chest tightens sharply, and it's suddenly almost hard to breathe. He'd pushed aside his impulse to touch for two whole months, not wanting to compromise her reputation in the field, and now the prospect of being able to hold her, to kiss her, seems almost overwhelming.

He shifts away her book and settles himself on the bed beside her, lifting her wrist and gently kissing the filigree pattern of veins hiding under her skin, his eyes tracing her sleeping face.]

[ It's blink-and-you'll-miss-it, the way her hand twitches, the slightest tense of her fingers as if threatening to curl. But they don't because he's given her plenty of warning — the shift of her book, the dip of the mattress — and when Natasha sleepily blinks awake it's with a relaxed expression, alertness coming to her slower than it usually would because she'd know those hands anywhere. ]

Hello. [ She settles a little further into her pillow, cheek a little damp from the wet of her hair. Her hand curls to fit the curve of his jaw, careful to avoid the tell-tale red spots of his skin; Natasha's smile grows a little crooked, a quiet hum following. ]

Too much sun, [ she murmurs. It's obvious she's glad to see him. ]

Hi. [He turns his face into her palm a little, leaning into her touch like a cat being petted. His smile curls against the heel of her palm and he chuckles softly, lifting his eyebrows a little.] Just a bit. It'll heal.

I didn't mean to wake you. [He knew he would anyway, so it wasn't like he had been trying to prevent it, but he liked how she looked when she was sleeping; quiet, peaceful, so achingly beautiful he had to fight the urge to take a photo of her with his phone to keep with him at all times. He presses a little kiss to the meat of her thumb, his hand settling at the dip of her waist, his fingers curling in the fabric of her robe.]

You came home ahead of schedule, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow. [It's a half-apology for...not having anything planned to welcome her back, no dinner, no present, he hadn't even been around. Not that he thinks she'd particularly care, but still.]

[ The curve to her smile turns a little soft, like she knows what he means when he says it. ] Lucky, [ she says in explanation, but it's a half-joke, as if her timely arrival had everything to do with a good hand rather than the careful way she'd maneuvered through the desert, listening to the sound of coyotes not wolves. (She likes the heat more than the snow; not very Russian of her, she knows.)

Natasha's sleepiness curls in on her at the edges. It's part of what makes her responses so sparse, but she doesn't seem in any hurry — like just this is homecoming enough. She wiggles her toes, stretching out her legs and just smiles at him. Now that she lets herself — she's missed him. ]

Stay with me? [ It's phrased as a question. It's still early, so she amends that with: ] Do you like Thai?

You often are. [A quiet acknowledgment of her skill and her propensity to finish each mission objective to the t.

He hesitates to use the phrase "adorable" when describing her because he knows she could kill him in any number of extremely imaginative ways with the most innocuous objects, but right now, the way she blinks slowly and smiles as she stretches is frankly, rather cute. He leans in to kiss the corner of her smile, humming a little in the affirmative.]

Of course. [Like she even had to ask. Phil keeps a spare change of clothes in the office, he doesn't mind sleeping here and then changing when he gets to work.] I do, yes. But there's no rush. [He's happy just to lie here, his arm curled around her, practically whispering into the narrow space between them.]

Okay then. [ It's a pleased kind of exhale. She looks up at him through the dip of her lashes, curling a hand into the collar of his shirt as if to keep him there, fingers a light press into the warmth of his neck.

She doesn't do anything except just breathe, for a little while. Natasha's getting better at cataloguing small moments for herself rather than to use; Phil is good for her that way. Eventually, she closes the distance until she can kiss him, the kind that's slow and languid and thorough, like Natasha's relearning everything she can about him.

When she pulls back, there's a quiet, sated sigh to her exhale. ]

[He hums softly, feeling her fingers press against his throat, almost surprised by how warm they are. For some reason he'd expected hands as slim as hers to be cold; as if having delicate fingers meant she had to have poor circulation as well.

He spends a good few minutes just watching her, a small smile playing about his lips as she leans in close.

When he speaks, it's in a mumble against her lips.] You look beautiful.

[ Just because she's heard it before doesn't mean that it isn't different. Maybe the words lose their meaning but Natasha understands the sentiment — it makes her smile show more in the set of her eyes than her mouth, his hand a warm weight on her hip even above the silk of her robe.

Her thumb trails up the line of his jaw. (Cold hands, cold heart, that's how the saying goes but Natasha's never as detatched as people think she is.) ]

I missed this. [ It's not I missed you, but maybe it's a start. ]

[He has to kiss her again, his lips lingering against hers, their breath mingling in the scant space between their mouths.]

Me too. [It's an I missed you from him, though he's not going to force that on her. But it's there for her to read if she cares to, in the slant of his smile, the way his hand rests gently (almost possessively) on her hip, the hushed whisper in his voice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's letting her dictate the terms of their relationship, whatever those may be, but that doesn't mean he isn't invested. He is.]

What are your plans tomorrow? [It's a Saturday; he doesn't technically have to go in to work. He's going to, but he might be able to convince himself to have a late morning if she felt up to it. The prospect of lying in bed with her as the sun crawled across the sheets is startlingly appealing.]

Staying in bed with you. [ Her tapered fingers reach out to barely trace the shape of his mouth. Maybe she's never been the most tactile person, but there are ways to overwrite some memories faster than others. Touch works quickest. Then, taste. (Like coffee and the whiskey he drank at the bar weeks ago, like good night's and I made you breakfast's and something wholly unfamiliar. )

It's strange, the kind of laziness that settles into her bones. It's not just sleep inertia or a lack of awareness — it's wanting to stay here, like this, self-contained and otherwise happy to just share breath. (Compromised doesn't come close.)

Her mouth quirks, like she's inviting him in on the joke. Like the answer's not obvious: ]

What about you?

What a coincidence. [His mouth twists in a smirk as he replies, his lips brushing her fingers lightly.] That's what I'm planning too.

[He reaches between them and plucks at the drawstring of her robe, quickly undoing the knot and pushing the silky fabric away so he can look his fill, sliding his hand across her milky skin in a slow caress, nimbly avoiding the place that made her twitch last time. He wants to touch, not tickle, and the very fact he's allowed to makes his smirk settle out into something a little more relaxed, quiet.

Natasha isn't the only one who's surprised by how easy it is to just lie here; Phil hasn't allowed himself this kind of non-action in a very long time.

His fingers trace the lacy band of her bra, just touching lightly, watching her.]

I'll make you breakfast again.

[ Phil's fingers skate that edge of lace, skimming over the hills and valleys of her ribs. Natasha sighs comfortably, pitching forward so her forehead rests against his; her chest rises and falls slowly, visibly relaxing into the touch where it would have been so much easier to do the reverse. ]

That feels good. [ It's a murmur as she shifts, settling in. The open invitation that says yes, that says you can, that says I want this with you. Her eyes are clear when she looks at him, not sleepiness but a quiet kind of calm making her smile soft. Or maybe it's a look just reserved for him. ]

We might have to go and pick up a few things.

[His heart swells a little when she shifts closer and leans up against him, overcome with a fond sort of feeling for this woman who holds herself so aloof from everyone — everyone but him, it seems. His hand skims over to stroke up and down her spine, his fingers trailing slowly over each and every vertebrae like he's counting them. He's not. He's just enjoying the feel of her skin beneath his hands.

He just smiles in response, tilting his head — his nose brushes against hers in a slow caress, and if Phil were anyone else, he'd chuckle at Eskimo kisses with the Black Widow — and pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth in a chaste peck of a kiss.]

We'll find a way to survive, I'm sure. [Late-night bodega runs never hurt anybody.]

[ The expanse of her back tells a better history than Natasha ever would. Broken glass, a notched scar at her shoulderblade, a thin line that trails down her side — her flesh heals faster, her lungs can work out splinters of bone but the scars are still there, fading quicker but still present.

Her smile grows a little into an exhale of laughter; maybe at the way she feels, like someone young, or the way Phil reacts, quiet and close. Maybe it's simpler than that — maybe it's just happiness after all. ]

It shouldn't be too hard. [ A hum, then her fingers are curling into the collar of his shirt once more. ] Kiss me again?

[Phil has more than his fair share of scars as well, each telling their own story. He can't throw any stones on the damage front, and he wouldn't even want to. They may mar her perfect skin, but Phil is glad for each and every one — they're testaments to her surviving, and for that he's grateful. She wouldn't be here with him if she didn't, and the thought of losing her, losing this is shockingly painful to him.]

We're highly-trained operatives. I think we can handle a milk run. [A literal milk run, not a figurative one. It's...a little odd not to be talking in metaphors right now.]

Gladly. [It's more of a sigh than a spoken word, but Phil's already pulling her in closer with the arm around her back, his other hand sliding beneath her cheek to cup her face as he slides his lips against hers, his eyes closing.]

[ She presses into the kiss. It's the kind of thing that could build, she knows, slotted into the rare parts of their lives that could be named regular; maybe it is already. The rhythm of her life has depended on S.H.I.E.L.D and Clint and Phil for a steady number of years — maybe not as anchors but as roadmarks. Maybe it's so easy because it's only building on what's there.

Natasha's tongue glides sweetly against his, and without breaking the kiss she slowly rolls them over until her hands are braced on either side of him. The robe stays half-on, a drape of silk across the dip of her back, baring the curve of her shoulders (no scars, no sunburn, no freckles), just that smooth expanse of skin.

(She thinks that it would be easy to love him. It's a truth that makes her cautious.) ]

[He lets her push him onto his back without fussing, his hand sliding down to rest at her hip again, the impulse to help steady her hard to resist. His thumb strokes slowly against the swell of her cheek as they kiss, her still-damp hair coiled around his wrist like it wants him to stay close too. Well, he's not going to argue.

Normally Phil doesn't like being on his back — it's inherently vulnerable, as positions go, makes him feel helpless — but it's barely a thought with Natasha, perhaps because even his unconscious mind knows that he can trust her to look after him. She's patched him up in the field before, he's relied on her to cover his exit, they've kept watch over each other during long, cold nights... Phil mostly trusts those he works with out of necessity, but he trusts Natasha out of choice.

The silk of her robe is at once cool to the touched and warmed from her body, and he likes the contrast of it as it pools over his hand, getting tangled around them both, keeping them close.]

[ (And that's the point, isn't it? The choice to trust, the choice to give and take — the choice to love, by however much you're able.)

Her weight shifting back to her knees, the dip in the bed makes her hips slot neatly against his. Natasha bites one last kiss before her attention shifts down, a hand looped around the fabric of his tie and she lightly tugs at it, encouraging him to sit up with her. ]

I think, [ she says, her hands carefully undoing the neat windsor knot of his tie. For all that it's easy between them, there's a playfulness in her eyes. ] People traditionally have homecoming sex. I could be wrong.

[He groans a little when she sits back against his hips; he's not hard, they've only been trading lazy kisses, but his body remembers very well what happened last time she did that, and he is eager for a redux. The way she tugs on his tie makes him think he's going to get it, and if they were anyone else, he'd laughingly suggest using it in some kind of vanilla bondage. But they've both had more than their share of being tied down against their will, and he's not sure he'd be able to step away from the sense memory of losing control like that enough to enjoy it.

So instead he sits up and slides his hands down her back, curling them over the swell of her ass and squeezing gently as he gives her a ghost of a wink. She wants playful? He'll give her playful.]

I do believe it's considered customary, yes. Do you think we should attempt this hallmark of normalcy?

Well, [ she says with a tip of her shoulder, pulling the tie out from his collar and slinging it loosely around her own neck (some things should stay crease free, after all). Natasha's expression changes into one of almost coquettish consideration, her hands drifting down to pop open the first button of his shirt. ]

That depends. [ She tips her chin, her smile ruining the ruse. ] Do you think we're ready for it?

[He's seen her pull this kind of act many times before, and each time he scoffed a little internally at the idiot schmuck who fell for fluttered lashes and husky whispers, but now... Well, he may be reading into things, hoping to find details that may or may not be there, but it feels more— real. Like it doesn't quite come naturally, but she's trying.

And that's all he really wants from her.] I think... [He pauses, a grin curling his own lips in response to her smile; his hands squeeze her ass again.] Let's go for it.

[ He never asks and neither does Natasha, but she knows; can guess, sometimes. These things aren't easy, a neat balance of work versus will and she knows that however far she's willing to push, Phil will follow. An extension of their partnership from one to the other and it's that ingrained ease that makes her laugh quietly, half-squirming in his lap. (There's a part of her that's determined to overcome this, this barrier of something. Natasha has never dealt well with her own frustrations.) ]

Breakfast was a success, [ she agrees, popping open another button. She dips her head to mouth at that spot of open chest, smiling into his skin. ] We should aim two for two.

[Phil's willing to give Natasha anything she wants, anything at all. When he commits, he commits fully, whether it be to his work or when he falls in love, and if that's what Natasha decides she wants, he'll hand over his heart without blinking an eye. For now, though, they're still working around each other, figuring out the best way to slot their lives together, and he's more than content to simply take it day by day. Especially when his days include Natasha perched in his lap, slowly divesting him of his clothes.

He hums in agreement, combing his fingers through her hair as she ducks her head, carefully separating a tangle that snags on his finger and arching a little into the touch of her lips.] I don't think we'll have any problems there.

[ For all that Natasha is, it's rarer that she surprises herself: rarer still that others do. The gentleness in Phil's hands, the way his touch grips and skims is in stark counterpoint to the things she's seen him do; the brisk efficiency and economy of movement replaced with something slower, more bated. (Phil Coulson is a romantic; Natasha isn't sure why she's so surprised.)

Her fingers work the final button free and her arms shift to slide around his neck, like she's not in any real hurry just yet, the robe hanging half-off her elbows. It's nice to be able to drag out something as simple as an easy flirtation. ]

Anything else I should know about this tradition? You'll have to remind me. I'm new to America.

[He is very much a romantic, though his instincts tend to lie dormant most of the time, and she tends to bring it out in him without any effort on her part. He's not sure if he should be grateful to her or not. No, that's a lie. He is grateful. He's grateful for all kinds of things, grateful they're still alive, grateful for whatever impulse it was that pushed her to take him home that night two months ago, grateful that she was willing to try again. Phil misses the simple companionship that they rarely get in their line of work, and she's giving it to him, despite the fact that he knows it doesn't come easy to her. So yeah, he's grateful.

His hand splays at the base of her spine, the tip of his pinky finger slipping beneath the elastic of her panties as his other hand skims down her neck to stroke across her collarbones.]

Well, [he starts, a smile twinkling in his eye,] It tends to start with removing this. [And his fingers trail down her sternum to hook the front of her bra, tugging just a little.]

[ There's an easy huff of laughter as she presses a kiss to his temple, only to pull away again. The silk robe falls easily down her arms and pools in the dip of the mattress made by their bodies, slipping down her back and the line of his arm. The clasp of her bra undone, she removes it by letting the shoulder straps fall first, then the rest is dropped over the edge of the bed; Natasha smiles, her hands settling at his waist now, the length of his tie hanging unevenly over the rise of her breasts. ]

This does feel familiar. [ Her thumbs hook into his beltloops. ] Next?

Next... [Next has to wait for a minute, because Phil is currently occupied with stroking his hands up her sides so he can cup her breasts in his palms, his thumbs brushing over rosy nipples. So sue him, she's got fabulous breasts and he's only human. Of course he'd want to take advantage of the moment and appreciate them.

He does rally eventually, though, looking up into her face with a little laugh around the edges of his smile, and rolls his shoulders.] Next I think we need to get rid of my shirt. [That involves cufflinks, though, and letting go of her, something Phil is rather reluctant to do at the moment.]

Edited 2012-11-22 01:24 (UTC)

[ They meet again in Lisbon, Portugal.

She doesn't know who she's waiting for, at the time. Natasha's been there for three days when the news reaches her: joint operation, the note reads; UK liason at 0900 touchdown. It's not her first interational operation but it doesn't mean that, historically, she's liked being a part of them — there's a reason she works with a sole partner, not a tac-team. Natasha's dressed in what half of the women standing by her are wearing: high heels, neat blouse, pencil skirt. In her hands is an equally sleek sign: MR. GREGSON, it reads, one of many waiting at the arrivals gate of Lisbon Portela Airport. She recognizes him immediately as he comes through, greets him with a kiss on both cheeks and a light hand on his elbow like what their covers say they are; buisness partners. ]

Hello again, [ she says, cadence light and accent-free like it was the first time they met. ] Good flight?

[ when bond sees her, he himself in a three piece gray suit and a picture perfect representation of the business man role he should be playing, his expression doesn't betray a hint of his concern. in fact the only thing that bubbles to the surface is amusement in the form of a subtle smirk, a sly expression that is far from out of place on his face or in the airport terminal. he kisses back without hesitance, lingering for a second near her left ear to say something low and away from any possible ear piece that might be in her dominant one: ]

Back for the second act?

[ he pulls away casually, letting her lead him in the right direction while he gets his bearings. it's been a while since his last visit to lisbon but the layout sets back into his memory soon enough. he strides with confidence out towards the curb where no doubt their transportation is waiting for them. ]

If only I new earlier you worked in mergers and acquisitions.

[ one can never be too careful in such a public place so he keeps it light for now. once they're in their car or even back at the hotel maybe they can more frankly discuss their amusing little conundrum. not that it's too terrible for him; as much as he prefers not working with partners, he's quite certain he's in capable hands. ]

Edited 2012-11-22 09:01 (UTC)

[ He pulls away and she laughs, a casual, almost flirtatious thing, like what they've just shared is a joke that isn't quite work appropriate. There is, in fact, a car waiting for them — driven by a junior S.H.I.E.L.D agent, tasked to this kind of thing through necessity. It's a black sedan, non-descript, no tint in their windows — they're spies, but they're not cliche. ]

There's been a restructuring in management, [ she tells him, the line of her posture straight and professional as her heels clack across first the linoleum of the airport, then the concrete of the curb. ] I changed departments about five years ago.

[ Departments, in this case, meaning the obvious: I don't work for who I used to. A restructuring of management, as in: I defected.

She opens the door to the car for him, tipping her chin. ]

Shall we?

[ to a department that want's my secrets with me intact he thinks to himself with his smile still perfectly in place. S.H.I.E.L.D. has barely been a blip on MI6's radar (they like to concern themselves with more than whatever the hell the americans are doing, or so M says) but new that their paths have been crossing more and more it makes sense that they would attempt to work together instead of getting in each other's way. 'besides', Q reminded him as he saw him off, 'our enemies have gotten much more creative of late and this organization specializes in just that.' ]

I'll count myself lucky then.

[ he lingers just a moment outside the car before slipping inside, placing his carryon briefcase on the floor in front of him. they've probably already collected his other luggage so he doesn't pay much mind to anything but the sound of her heels as she rounds the car and gets in on the other side. ]

No flaying on the schedule this time around I hope.

[ he still carries a few scars from their previous encounter to this day. 007 might be resilient when it comes to withstanding the more skilled torturers he's been at the mercy of, but it's rather difficult to wipe the memories clean from the psyche. once a veteran agent told him embracing the scars was much more cathartic than trying to forget. he certainly wouldn't mind embracing this particular memory. ]

[ Something shutters very clearly in her expression as soon as her door closes and the car pulls away from the curb. Not apology, not fear — closer to amusement, maybe, though it's hard to tell. It's been years. No doubt James Bond has gotten better since then, though no less brash. In that vein, so has she.

Natasha glances at him briefly. It's the faintest, pale mark across the ridge of his cheekbone, but she remembers that one — the edge of her nail, the red of his skin. The memory makes her smile, if maybe for different reasons than one would first guess, and she crosses her legs at the knee. Her hands are busy with a phone (pretense or reality, who can tell, the way her gaze seems to hone in to focus on her screen but what's the phrase, there's sentiment attached to the one that got away) and she doesn't glance at him when she speaks. ]

Liar. [ It's said idly, without any real heat as her fingers tap away at the keys. ] You'd enjoy it.

[ james catches the shift in that expression of her though he can't tell if it's intentional or not. natalia, or black widow as his briefing referred to her as, was never one to be so forward on their first meeting. instead the woman leaves a trail of breadcrumbs that draw you in but never quite lead you to where you think you're going. she's good, almost too good, and it makes him pity the poor souls that get in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s way.

bond isn't so talented at hiding his amusement, especially not when it's genuine. it's gotten him into trouble more often than not, though not enough for him to ever stop. he catches her glance but shifts his gaze to the front of the car where the road is slipping by them when she shifts her attention to her phone. ]

A change of location would be preferable, though.

[ bond's words drip with implication like they're already tangled in a down duvet, but she should already be well aware that this is the status quo with 007 (somewhere in an MI6 file he's sure it's noted, scribbled in a margin in M's hand). ]

We've never been formally introduced you know.

Edited 2012-11-26 18:09 (UTC)

( g u n k i n k b e h i n d t h e l i n k )

She looked at the book Eames gave to her with a surprised expression.

"I don't remember ever mentioning my favorite book to you," she said.

"It's a lot of people's favorite book, and you fit the type." He replied with a wink, handing over the book. "It's a vintage copy Ariadne, museum quality, so be nice to it."

She frowned slightly at that. She didn't like the idea of being easily figured out or fitting a "type."

"Thanks...I guess," she said, even as she handled the book delicately. It was a beautiful copy.

"What's this for?" she asked him as she looked at the map.

Edited 2012-11-23 07:59 (UTC)

"Hey, I warned you not to take my picture right now," she said.

"Awwww you're no fun."

"I'm just feeling unattractive today," she said.

"Why?" He asked.

She shrugged.

"I don't know," she said. "PMS maybe."

He ran his his fingers through her hair. "I think you're pretty all the time."

She gave him a small smile.

"Thanks babe," she said.

"C'mere." He wrapped her up in his arms.

She put her arms around him and relaxed in his embrace with a sigh.

He kissed the top of her head. "You look pretty hot like this, too. If I'm being honest."

"In your dress shirt?" she asked.

"Mhm." He kissed her temple.

She smiled.

"I know you like when I wear your clothes," she said.

"Yeah, I do. You always look better in them than me," he said with a laugh.

She laughed too.

"I don't know," she said. "You looked pretty damn good in that suit last night at dinner."

He laughed some more. "I try."

She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"How are you enjoying Hawaii so far?" she asked.

"It's nice. Hotter than expected, but nice none the less. What about you?" He asked.

"It's beautiful," she said. "I love the ocean. And I love being here with you."

"So what should we do today? More swimming?"

"We could go see a volcano," she said. "Or the jungle."

"Volcano then?"

"Okay," she said with a nod. "We should book a tour through the resort."

He nodded. "Want me to go down?"

"Sure," she said.

He laughed. "I mean to the concierge."

She laughed.

"I knew what you meant you dirty bird," she said, pushing him lightly. "But you can do that too if you want."

She waggled her eyebrows at him.

"Just tell me when," he said as he grinned.

"Any time you want," she said with her own grin. "For either."

He laughed. "We'll I'm gonna go down to the lobby and come right back. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. "I'll probably hop in the shower."

He gave her a kiss before going down to the lobby.

She watched him go before shedding his shirt and her panties and heading to the shower.

John came back a few minutes later. "Babe?" He went to the bathroom.

She opened the glass door to peek out at him.

"Hm?"

"There's a tour leaving at one," he said, peeking his head in.

"Perfect," she said.

He smiled before going to the bedroom to get ready.

She finished up in the shower and came out with a towel around her.

"You could have joined me, you know," she said as she started rummaging for underwear.

"It's okay," he said as he laced up his sneakers. "I'll probably need a shower afterwards anyways."

"Okay," she said with a shrug as she shed the towel and pulled on her panties and bra before pulling out some jean shorts and a tank top to wear on the hike.

John finished and waited for her. "Should we get something to eat?"

"Probably," she said. "Let's go down to the restaurant."

He went to grab his wallet and took her hand.

She grabbed her bag with the camera inside and let him lead her down to the restaurant.

They got a table and John ordered coffee and a fruit salad.

She got coffee and a bagel with cream cheese.

John ate quietly. "So Christmas...we're visiting your family again?"

She shook her head.

"My brother and Erin are headed to California for the week to spend it with her family," she said a little apologetically. "And my dad and Sharon are going to her son's."

He nodded. "So just us in Gotham then?"

She nodded.

"Sorry. I know you were probably looking forward to another family holiday," she said.

"It's okay. At least ill be with you," he said.

She reached across to take his hand.

"We'll have our own family Christmas," she said.

"We should get a tree and everything."

"Definitely," she agreed. "And we'll listen to Christmas music and drink hot cocoa while we open our gifts in the morning and then make a big dinner. Maybe go ice skating in the park."

He laughed. "It sounds so nice when you say it."

She frowned a bit.

"Are those not things you'd normally want to do on Christmas?" she asked, curious.

"Well...I mean, I don't really go all out during Christmas since it's usually just me. I visited the boys' home after but." He shrugged.

"Well, we don't have to do all those things," she said. "We can just have a quiet morning around the tree and then go to the Boys' home together."

"No, I'd like it if we did do all those things," he insisted.

"Okay, but I think we should go to the Boys' Home too," she said.

"Of course. It's what I do every year," he said.

She smiled endearingly at him.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too," he said.

After finishing up and leaving a tip, they met up with the group waiting in the lobby for the bus and tour guide that would take them around.

It was a mixed group consisting of an older couple, a group of middle-aged ladies on vacation together, a family with a couple teenagers, a couple on their honeymoon, and them. Everyone seemed nice enough and excited for the trip.

Their tour guide showed up after a bit, a friendly younger guy, and introduced himself before leading them to the small bus that would be taking them.

John and Ari got a row in the middle of the bus. THey only had to wait a few minutes until they started moving.

She held his hand as they drove along, looking out the window at the beautiful scenery.

"Are you two on your honeymoon too?"

The new bride and groom had sat across the aisle from them and the girl was smiling at them as Ari looked over.

"Oh, no," she said with a polite smile. "We're just dating."

The girl looked a little embarrassed for asking.

John smiled at them politely too but left Ari to answer the question.

"Sorry," she girl said. "You just seemed to have that honeymoon glow about you too."

Ari huffed out a small laugh.

"It's okay. And congratulations to you."

The girl beamed and looked at her husband.

"Thanks," she said. "I'm Jessica. This is Ben."

"Nice to meet you," she said back. "I'm Ari and this is John."

John reached over to shook each of their hands. "Congrats," he said.

They each shook hands, Ben looking a little less excited than Jessica about making new friends.

Jessica continued to chat with Ari during the bus ride, which she didn't mind, although she hoped it wouldn't continue for the whole trip.

JOhn listened in to their conversation, but kept quiet.

The bus pulled up to what looked like a park ranger station and their tour guide said that from there they would be breaking into smaller groups to continue their trip in 4WD vehicles.

Ari took John's hand as they left the bus.

JOhn put on his sunglasses once they got out and looked around. It was a mostly flat rocky surface as far as the eye could see.

"It looks like we just drove to the moon or something," she commented as she slipped her own sunglasses on.

The guide hustled them over to the 4WD vehicles. He helped Ariadne get on one.

"Thanks," she said to him.

John got onto his own vehicles. "Ever driven one of these?" John asked Ari.

"Nope!" she said, looking a tad nervous. "You?"

He shook his head before an instructor came over and started showing everyone how to use them.

Ari listened intently and felt better about it.

"This is going to be fun," she said to him before rammaging in the bag across her shoulder and throwing a tube of sunblock at him. "Don't want to get crispy up here."

The sun was beating down pretty hard and there was no shade to be found. She couldn't imagine how hot it would be near the volcano.

"Thanks." He caught the tube and started applying sunscreen to his face and arms.

"Don't forget the back of your neck," she said.

"Oh, right." He quickly did his neck too before tossing the tube back to her.

She applied some as well before putting it away.

Their guide came back and helped them all start their vehicles before he led them across the dirt to the trail they'd be taking. She went ahead of John, glancing back at him every now and then.

John was pretty focused on not crashing into her in front of him, so every time she'd look back, he had a look of concentration on his face.

She smiled and focused on her own driving while trying to take in the scenery. It was amazing up there.

John looked around too and stopped when they came to their destination.

Over the ridge in front of them she could see the smoke rising from the active volcano. There were places were lava was bubbling up along the mountain in the distance.

"Wow," was all she said. In the background was the teal blue ocean

"Wow," John said. They were told they could get off here and take pictures so that's what he did.

She took out her camera and snapped some pictures of the volcano and their surroundings before turning it on John.

"Smile babe," she said.

He turned and smiled for her. "Want me to do you?"

She snapped the picture.

"Yes, but do you really think this is an appropriate time for that?" she teased before handing the camera off to him.

He laughed and shook his head as he grabbed the camera from her. "Not going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not if I can help it," she said with a grin before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He took a step away from her to take the photo before coming over to her side, putting his arm around her, and snapping a picture of themselves.

"Want me to take one for you?" their tour guide asked, coming toward them.

"Sure!" she said and waited for John to give him the camera.

John handed over the camera before posing with Ariadne.

She wrapped her arm around him and smiled for the camera before the guide handed the camera back over.

"Thanks," she said to him.

John slipped the camera back into her bag. "Let's walk around," he said as he took her hand.

"Kay," she said as she held his hand.

"So...what do you want for Christmas?" He asked.

"You," she said.

"Well, you've got me, darlin', but that's not what I'm asking," he said.

"Whatever you want to give me," she said.

"If I gave you a ring pop?" He asked, raising his brow.

"I would love it," she said with a smile. "Especially if it was watermelon."

He laughed. "And if I gave you a diamond tiara?"

"I would roll my eyes and make you return it," she said.

"How about...eh, I'm all out of ideas."

She huffed out a laugh.

"'All your ideas' are a ring pop and a diamond tiara?"

He smiled. "A puppy? I always wanted one growing up."

"I could get you a puppy," she suggested. A puppy probably wouldn't be practical for her at this point.

"I don't know...I don't think I have time for one yet. I don't want to just leave it at my apartment all day," he said.

"Yeah, it's hard if you're not home a lot," she said. "A cat?"

"A cat? They're pretty self sufficient, right?"

"Yeah," she said with a nod. "As long as they're not a kitten."

"Okay, a cat would be nice," he said.

"We can go to the shelter and pick one out," she said. "Find one that you like."

He nodded.

"How about, for Christmas, I give coupons for things? Like a coupon saying I'll give you a massage or make dinner or something?"

"That sounds perfect," she said.

He grinned. "Okay." He knew it wasn't much but she seemed pleased.

She smiled and gave him a quick kiss. She didn't need jewelry or expensive gifts from him.

"My next purchase, though, is going to be a hat because I'm bakin' in this sun," he said.

She laughed.

"I think we can manage that when we get back," she said.

"Okay," he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

After another half hour, they drove back as a group to the bus.

Once on the bus she leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. The sun tired her out.

He draped his arm around her shoulders. He was tired, too, but stayed awake on the ride back.

"I could use a dip in the pool," she murmured.

"We could do that once we get back and then take a shower," he said.

"Sounds good," she said.

After the bus dropped them off, they went up to the room and changed into their swim stuff.

She applied some more sunscreen to her pale skin before putting a coverup on and grabbing her sunglasses.

"Can you rub some on me?" He asked, refering to her sunscreen.

"Sure," she said before she grabbed the bottle and went behind him to apply the lotion to his back and shoulders.

"Thanks babe," he said. He did his face, arms and chest after before going down to the pool. There were a few people there already but not so much that there wasn't a free umbrella and lounge chairs.

She put her stuff on a chair before lifting the cover up over her head.

"Think I'm going to get right in," she said, looking forward to the cool water.

"Okay," he said. He stepped out of his flip flops and draped his towel over his chair.

She walked to the pool stairs and started getting in.

John laid down on his lounge and watched her.

Once she got waist deep she just dove in and swam to the deep end.

He laid his head back, his eyes closed.

She did some laps before just floating on her back.

Eventually the heat started getting to him so he went to the edge of the pool closest to their things and slipped in.

She saw him get in and swam over to give him a wet, slightly chlorinated kiss.

He grinned. "Hi."

"Hi," she said, smiling back.

"Cooled off already?" He asked.

"Yeah," she said with a nod.

He kissed her forehead. "Okay."

"It's nice," she said swimming backwards away from him a bit and treading water.

He swam after her. "When we get back, wanna take a shower and eat?"

She nodded.

"Room service?"

"Yeah or wherever." John reached out for her.

She huffed out a laugh and swam back just out of his reach with a grin.

"C'mon." He swam after her again.

She grinned even wider and swam out of his reach again.

He swam after her one more time.

She splashed him but let him catch her.

He laughed as he wiped his face and then wrapped his arms around her waist.

"You caught me," she said with an exaggerated sigh as her arms went around his neck.

"Yes I did." He kissed her nose. "Let's go back to our room so I can claim my prize," he whispered this into her ear.

"Let's," she agreed, feeling herself already getting turned on just from his words.

He smiled and kissed her before letting go and swimming over to the stairs.

She swam after him and got out of the pool behind him.

He tossed her her towel befor drying himself off with his own.

She dried herself off and slipped on her flip flops before grabbing the rest of her stuff.

He grabbed his things. "Ready?"

"Mhm," she said and took his hand before heading up to their room.

Once they got there, John went to the bathroom and got undressed before turning on the shower.

"I thought you wanted your prize?" she asked as she leaned against the doorjam of the bathroom, still in her bikini.

"All in good time." He flashed her a grin before getting into the shower and closing the glass door.

She huffed.

"I don't even get an invite?"

"C'mon in then," he said over the sound of the water.

"Well, don't let me put you out or anything," she said as she started taking off her bathing suit.

"Awes c'mere." John opened the glass door a bit.

"Why, thank you," she said as she stepped in behind him.

He closed it and then pulled her in for a kiss.

She kissed him back then smiled against his lips.

"Hello," she said.

"Hi." He slid his hands down her back before resting them on her butt.

"I've wanted your hands on me all day," she said.

"Now they are." He kissed her neck.

She nodded as her eyes slipped shut.

"You're perfect," he whispered to her.

She pressed her lips to his because there's no real good way to respond to something like that except show your appreciation somehow.

He didn't need words from her when she kissed him like that.

She tangled her fingers in his hair as she continued to kiss him, licking into his mouth.

He licked into hers, tangling their tongues together.

She hummed slid her tongue over his, exploring the mouth she knows like her own now, her body fits against his.

He pulled away from her to breathe.

Edited 2012-11-24 20:25 (UTC)

She was breathing heavily herself as she nuzzled his chin and up behind his ear.

"Let me wash your hair," he said before reaching for the shampoo bottle.

"Okay," she said and turned around.

He soaped her hair up, making sure that he got every lock, and massaged her scalp.

She closed her eyes and hummed.

"You're so good to me," she mumbled.

"Thank you." He kissed the side of her face before nudging her under the water.

She rinsed her hair and rubbed the water out of her eyes before looking up at him.

"Thank you," she said, pressing her hand to his cheek. "You treat me better than any man ever has."

He looked at her bashfully. "Want to do mine?"

"Yes," she said before reaching for the shampoo.

He bowed his head so she could reach him.

She soaped up his hair and massaged his scalp thoroughly as well before having him rinse off.

He rinsed out his hair then combed it away from his eyes with his fingers.

"Sex-ay," she said with a smile.

He huffed out a laugh.

"What? You are," she said as she slid a hand over his hip.

"Well, thanks baby."

"You're welcome," she said as her hand slid lower to grab his ass.

He grinned and pulled her to his chest.

She grinned up at him and slid her other arm around him, grabbing the other cheek.

"You have such a nice ass too," she said.

"Yours isn't that bad either."

"Aw thanks," she said.

John lifted his hand and pinched her nose.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Your seduction methods need some fine-tuning," she teased.

He laughed. "I've got you already, don't I?"

"So you just stop trying, is that it?" she joked. "I should have played harder to get."

Considering she didn't play hard to get at all.

"Sounds about right," he said with a grin.

She tweaked his nose then.

He laughed and lean in to nibble at her bottom lip.

She kissed his lips in return, her hands squeezing his behind.

"The question is, do we want to get dirty in or out of the shower?"

"I vote for out," he replied.

"Okay with me," she said.

He gave her one last kiss before turning off the water.

She reached out and grabbed a towel before she started drying him off with it.

He bowed his head against so she could get his hair.

She rubbed at his head before moving down the rest of his body until she's drying his ankles and tops of his feet.

When she finished, he grabbed a fresh towel and started with her hair.

She closed her eyes as the towel moved over her.

Once she was dry, he wrapped the towel around her shoulders before getting out.

She got out behind him and hung the wet towel up before padding into the bedroom. The doors to their balcony are slightly open and she can hear the sound of the waves and feel a slight breeze.

John came up behind her.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder with a smile.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. "Love you."

"Love you, too," she said as her arms came up to cover his.

He rested his forehead against the back of her head.

She closed her eyes, content to just be held for a bit.

"You have the nicest skin," he whispered to her.

She smiled at that.

"It's all yours," she said back quietly.

"I know," he said.

She brought his hand up to her lips to kiss it.

"Would you...move in with me?"

She paused in her movement of returning his hand to her waist.

That was the question wasn't it? It was always going to eventually be the question. Would she move to Gotham for him? Would she leave Paris for him?

It was the question she didn't let herself think about because she'd never been certain of the answer. Until now.

"Yes," she said.

John breathed of a silent sigh of relief. "It doesn't have to be right now." Because he knew how much she loved livin in Paris.

She turned to look at him with a smile.

"Well, I hope not, since we're in Hawaii and all," she teased.

He laughed. "I know, I mean eventually I want us to live together."

"I know," she said. "Me too."

"I'm sorry we can't just move to Paris," he said quietly.

She turned in his arms to face him.

"It's okay," she said. "You have an important reason to stay in Gotham."

"You're more important than all of that," he said with a sad sort of look.

She leaned in to place a kiss to his chest.

"I want to be with you," she said. "Wherever you are."

He nodded.

"And I can keep Paris so we can visit whenever we want," she said.

"Okay." He nodded again.

She gave him a small smile.

"I thought you'd be happier."

He huffed out a laugh. "Trust me, I am."

"Okay," she said. "Me too."

He kissed her lips. "Would...want some place bigger? My lease isn't up until ten months from now."

"i don't mind staying there for now," she said. The idea of them sharing a small space in a big city felt kind of romantic. Like a couple newlyweds off on their own for the first time. Maybe she'd just watched too many old movies.

"We can find a bigger place when your lease is up."

"Okay," he said.

She grinned.

"We're crazy, you know that," she said.

"Why?" He asked.

"I don't know. Because you're the Batman and I'm a criminal and neither of us should be dating anyone, never mind each other and I don't really care because I'm ridiculously in love with you," she said. "But we're still crazy."

He chuckled. "Yeah, we're crazy."

She pressed her lips to his.

He kissed her back.

She wrapped herself around him as much as she could as she kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up.

Her legs wrapped around his waist.

He walked her away from the balcony and over to their bed where he set her down gently.

"Don't want to give the resort a show?" she teased as she laid back onto the bed.

"Not particularly, no," he replied as he got onto the bed himself.

"It would be a good show," she said as she pulled him towards her, hands sliding over warm skin.

"I'm sure but I don't want to share this with anyone else." He moved in close.

"Okay," she relented, like she really had been thinking about taking their bedroom activities public.

She brought his lips down to hers.

He kissed her as his hands slid down her chest.

She sighed against his lips, skin heating up at his touch.

One of his hands trailed down to between her legs while his other arm supported himself up on his elbow.

She took in a breath as her legs parted more.

"Do you like that?" He asked as he rubbed her clit. "Tell me."

She hummed and nodded.

"Yes. Love your hands," she said.

He leaned down and kissed her.

She kissed him back passionately as she arched into his hand more.

"And your mouth," she said against his lips.

He couldn't help the smile gracing his lips. "What do you want?"

"Mm...your mouth," she breathed out.

He kissed the corner of her mouth before shimming lower down on the bed.

She lifted her head to watch him, body humming in anticipation as her legs bent at the knee.

He settled between her legs, hooking each of them over his shoulders, before lowering his mouth down onto her.

No matter how many times he did this, the sight of him between her legs still did almost as much for her as him physically touching her. An electric spark shot through her and her head dropped down as she sighed loudly.

He licked at her folds before sucking her clit into his mouth.

She let out a needy whine at that, her hands moving to tangle in his hair.

"S'good," she said, even though she probably didn't have to.

He looked up at her as one of his hands rested on her breast.

She sighed and pressed her own hand to the other one, pinching and pulling on her nipple.

He continued his action as his hand left her breast and threaded his fingers with hers.

She held his hand tightly as he worked her toward orgasm, a low keening sound coming from her in between pants.

"John, oh god," she managed to get out.

He sucked a little harder, feeling her thighs trembling on either side of his head.

It didn't take long before she hit her peak, tensing before crying out as she arched and spasmed against the bed.

He lifted his head after she came and watched her.

She took in deep breaths as she rode it out, legs moving restlessly. It took her a few minutes to come back to herself, lifting her head to look down at him, giving him a small, bliss-filled smile.

He shimmied back up to her eye level and smiled.

She grinned back.

"Thank you," she said as she slid her hand through his hair affectionately

"You're welcome." He kissed her nose.

She smelled herself on his lips and it made her eyes darken again before she pulled him in for a kiss.

He kissed her back, his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Am I the best you've ever had?" she asked against his lips as her legs tangled with his and her hands ghosted down his chest and stomach. "No lies."

"Yes, hands down,' he replied without hesitation.

"Really?" she asked, pulling back a bit to look at him to be sure he wasn't just saying that.

He nodded. "The best ever."

She grinned then. For all her outward self-assuredness, she still held insecurities like everyone else.

She pressed her lips back against his.

"I just want to be good for you. Always," she said in between kisses as her hand moved through wiry hair to wrap around his cock.

"You always are," he assured her.

She gave him a slow stroke as she kissed down his jaw.

"Do you have any fantasies we haven't fulfilled yet?" she asked. "Anything at all."

He shut his eyes with a shaky sigh. "I don't know."

"There must be something," she said as she licked and nipped at his neck and continued to stroke him languidly until he was hot and hard in her hand.

"I'm a pretty simple guy," he insisted, a hitch in his breath.

"Even simple men have fantasies," she said before sucking the delicate skin over his pulse, feeling it jump.

He sucked in a breath. "I come in your mouth."

She smiled against his skin, her thumb sliding over the head of his cock.

"Why would you be hesitant to tell me that?" she asked as she kissed back up to his mouth. "That's no problem at all."

He shrugged a bit, his eyes still closed.

"Anything you want," she said as she pressed her nose against his, hoping he'd look at her. "Ever."

He opened his eyes.

"Got it?" she asked.

He nodded. "Got it."

"Good. So do you want me on my knees while I suck you?" she asked as she sat herself up, her hand never leaving his cock.

"Whichever." John was pretty agreeable at this point.

"It's your fantasy," she pointed out as she let him go. She moved off the bed.

"Come here." she indicated to the edge of the bed.

John sat up and scooted over so he could sit down on the edge of the bed.

She leaned in to kiss him before she kneeled in between his legs, her hands sliding over his thighs up to his hip bones.

He parted his legs for her, just watching.

She slid her hands down the insides of his thighs, brushing circles into his skin, teasing him a bit

He ran his fingers through her hair, looking at her fondly.

She smiled up at him before she leaned in to blow air over his cock, as her hands moved high up the insides of his thighs. She wants to drive him a little crazy with want.

He let out a shaky breath. "Gonna draw this out, aren't you?" He stroked her cheek.

"That a problem?" she asked before kissing the inside of his thigh, dangerously close to his balls.

He shook his head.

She pressed the palm of his hand to his cock, holding against his belly as she trailed kisses over his balls and then sucked them into her mouth.

He moaned softly. "I like when you do that."

She hummed against him in response before licking the area and sucking on them again a little harder, feeling his cock twitch under her hand.

He held his breath before exhaling loudly.

"Don't pass out on me," she teased before she licked her way up his length very slowly.

He laughed breathlessly before it quickly turned into a moan.

She kissed the tip, tasting his precum before blowing cool air over it again. She then swirled her tongue over it and sucked lightly before letting it go.

He moaned again, longer this time.

"You taste so good," she purred as her hand wrapped around him, stroking him steadily as she sucked his head back into her mouth, looking up to gauge his reactions.

His eyes were closed again as he grunted, his fingers tightening in her hair.

She hummed around him and took more of him in, loving the noises she could coax out of him.

He inhaled sharply before letting out a low moan. "Ariadne. God, you're so good."

She hummed again before taking even more of him, pressing her tongue against him before sliding back up and blowing air on the head again as her hand continued to work him.

"Oh faster please," he begged.

She can't help the smile on her face.

"I like when you beg," she said before licking back up him and taking him into her mouth again, hollowing out her cheeks and taking him down as far as she can.

He laughed breathlessly before his face contorted. "Close," he managed.

She didn't let up, bobbing up and down on him, her hand massaging his balls and then moving to press against his perineum.

John let out a strangled sort of noise as he came, his jaw clenched tight as well as his eyes.

She swallowed him down as he pulsed into her mouth and continued to lick him slowly as he rode it out.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her as he caught his breath.

She kissed the still swollen head of his cock as she caught his eyes before she stood up and kissed his mouth.

He kissed her back as his arms wrapped around her.

"Good?" she asked as her knees settled on either side of his hips and she sat down on his lap.

"Amazing," he said with a grin. "Like you have two tongues."

She grinned back.

"If you let me bring you down into a dream, I could," she said.

The smile disappeared from his face. "I don't know about that."

"Hey, I'm not being serious," she said, nuzzling his nose. "I know how you feel about that."

He nodded.

She kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too," he said as he kissed her cheek.

She squirmed a bit on his lap. She was still wet and throbbing from sucking him off.

"I know you can't...again...already," she said. "But...I need..."

Either his hands or her own or the shower.

"Oh, uh," he said after what she wanted donned on him. "Wanna give me like ten minutes or is that too long?"

"If you only need 10 minutes then I will most certainly wait," she said before pressing her lips to his again in a slow, sensual kiss. They could still enjoy themselves in the meantime.

He kissed her back as he swiped his tongue across her bottom lip.

She used a hand on his chest to push him back on the bed before pressing her body over his.

"You really only need 10 minutes?" she asked in between lazy kisses.

"That would be ideal," he said with a laugh.

She laughed too.

"It's okay if it's longer," she said. "I'll still be impressed."

She couldn't help but rub herself against his thigh a bit to relieve some of the tension. And maybe it might speed things up a bit too.

"Maybe we should've left me coming in your mouth till the end," he said.

"I don't know," she said. "Getting you off still may have wound me up, no matter how many times you made me come before."

She couldn't help that seeing him like that, making him come like that got her going.

"That's good to know." He kissed her as he rubbed his hand down her back.

She rolled on to her side so she could tangle their legs as they made out.

"Can't help that you get me going so easily."

He put his arm around her and scooted them up the bed.

She sighed and started pressing kisses to his skin, his neck and chest. Just light flutterings of her lips and breath.

"Roll over," she said. "Stomach."

He nodded and scooted back a little so he could roll onto his stomach.

She continued to press her lips against him, adding her tongue, tracing patterns over his skin, moving to straddle his lower back.

"Gonna give me a massage?" He asked as he sunk into the bed.

"Yes. But if you fall asleep I'll have to go try out the detachable shower head and you'll miss all the fun," she warned.

He grinned. "I won't fall asleep. Promise."

"Okay," she said as she started working on his shoulders, pressing scattered kisses and nips as she went, not wanting him to relax too much.

Despite his promise, he could feel himself start to relax. The nips helped but only for a second or two.

She could feel him relaxing below her so she slid herself down his body more so she was in a good position to smack his ass soundly.

He jumped a little at the smack. "Alright, alright, sorry."

She grinned before leaning over to kiss where she just hit.

He laughed and reached for her knee.

She laughed too.

"Do you like me kissing your ass?" She teased. "Or do you prefer me smacking it?"

"I like everything," he replied.

She grinned and her hands started to massage his cheeks.

He moaned.

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully as she leaned forward to kiss his lower back. "You like that too huh?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

She let her fingers dip into the cleft of his ass slightly, just testing.

John shifted uncomfortably but didn't say anything.

When he didn't give any sign of protest she wet one of her fingers and slid it gently up the crack of his ass, over the puckered hole, but not lingering there. She used her other hand to massage one of his cheeks at the same time.

"Have you done this before? I mean to another guy." He asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "Is it okay? You can tell me to stop."

"It's...fine, he replied.

"You can tell me to stop anytime," she said as her finger slid back down, this time pausing to press against his hole very slightly. "I should have done this when you were in my mouth."

"Why?" He asked quietly.

"I hear it feels fantastic," she said as her finger made circles around the rim with slight pressure. She reached down to tickle his balls at the same time.

He moaned again into the pillow.

She smiled.

"Are we getting some stirring down below?" she asked as the hand on his balls moved to check, as she added some pressure to the finger on his ass.

He huffed out a laugh. "I think we're almost there."

"Mm, good," she said as she wrapped a hand around his hardening cock, pressed under his body. The tip of her finger pressed against his hole, wiggling it a bit.

He bent one of his legs to the side so she'd have better access.

She stroked him with one hand as her finger pressed against his tight hole. She felt him swell in her hand.

John rolled over onto his back.

She moved her hands away so he could and smiled down at him.

He smiled back.

"Are you ready for me again?" she asked.

He reached down to grasp his cock, giving himself a few more strokes.

She moaned at the sight. She's been really patient waiting for him, but she's absolutely aching.

"C'mere," he said, holding out his hands to her.

She grabbed his hands and laid down next to him.

He rolled onto his side and leaned over to kiss her.

She kissed him back, her hands sliding over his skin.

"You're amazing," she said against his lips.

"You are," he insisted quietly.

"Make love to me," she said back.

John gently pushed her onto her bed and settled on top of her. "Like this?"

"Yeah," she said with a nod.

He settled his legs between hers before reaching down and guiding himself into her.

She let out a relieved sigh as she opened her legs wider for him.

"Yes," she whispered.

He leaned his head down, pressing his face against her neck as he moved against her.

She curled a leg around his hip, pulling him tightly against her with every thrust, her arms sliding up his back.

"Oh Ariadne," he breathed into her ear.

She hummed as she moved against him.

"Needed you so bad," she breathed out.

He tugged on her hair as he quickened his thrusts.

"Tug harder," she said, the pleasure and pain combining deliciously.

He did so and exposed her neck. John bit the spot right below her ear.

She whimpered and moaned.

He licked the spot before lifting his head and looking down at her.

She looked up at him with lust-filled eyes, flushed and panting.

He watched her with the same look on his face.

She pulled his mouth down to hers hard as she kissed him.

He pushed his tongue into her mouth as his thrusts quickened.

She sucked on his tongue before she moaned.

"Rightthere," she whimpered into his lips.

"Ariadne," he moaned.

"Ohgodthere," she said as he hit the spot again and her leg tightened around him.

He reached down with his hand to rub her clit.

"Fuck," she said and closed her eyes tight. It only took her a few more moments before she was coming, crying out his name.

He slowed down once she came and then pulled out.

She was breathing heavily as she opened her eyes to look at him.

"C'mere." John sat on the middle of the bed, his legs out in front of him.

She sat up and crawled over to him.

He helped her straddle his thighs.

She took his cock into her hand and pressed the head through her folds.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Can you fuck me like this?" He asked.

"Of course," she said as she started to sink down on him. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

He laughed ans rested his hands on her hips.

She braced herself on his shoulders and started to move.

He put his hands on her squeeze and helped her grind down on him.

She let out a noise as she twisted her hips and rode him hard.

"Faster," he begged.

She gripped his shoulders as she sped up, bouncing up and down on him as fast as she could, their skin slapping together loudly.

John's body tightened as he came into her with a loud grunt.

She hummed and continued to move a bit as she milked him dry for the second time that afternoon, stilling and holding him tight once she knew he was done.

He laid back on the bed with a sigh.

Since she was attached to him at the moment, she went with him, her legs straightening out against his.

"I'm tired," he murmured.

She laughed.

"You should be," she said as she rolled to his side and curled against him. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "You were a rock star."

He chuckled. "Thanks."

"You're probably going to regret letting me know that you only need about 10 minutes to recover though," she teased.

He laughed again. "It was more like fifteen minutes."

"Still," she said. "I'm going to take advantage of that knowledge now."

He grinned. "Right now though I need a nap."

"Me too," she said, pressing a kiss to his lips before settling down against him.

"I love you," he said against her lips.

"I love you, too," she said.

[ Somewhere along the meandering causeways of history, Midgard has come of age. Her skies have learned to rage and storm without Mjolnir's song to call her hence.

And yet — Loki has spent years upon this half-formed attempt at civilization, crawling upon his belly like a worm to hide from the justice of golden Asgardia. He has supped from Midgard's meager tables, and slaked his thirst upon the piss-poor wine of her orchards. He has weathered a hundred of her storms, and each time he has felt the rain and the cloud and the fury of her skies to be lacking.

So, when the lightning cracks across the sky, brutally, ferociously, splitting it in twain, Loki draws a quelling breath, and his heart skitters like that of a creature caught and trussed for slaughter. Mjolnir sings even to Loki Liesmith, but it is not her strength that draws him from his palace of mud and of fickle bones. ]

Such is the rage of a god. [ says Loki, a tattered murmur of sound against the ferocity of the storm battling the skies, and yet he knows he will be heard. He is smiling; a cruel twist of his mouth upon his bone-white face. ] Have you thus found me worthy to behold it?

Have I ever not? [The reply of the Thunder God, windswept cape and hair a halo of his majesty as the storm dies down, but yet remains. He looks hard upon Loki, anger warring with other emotions.]

You are caught and you will cease this foolishness, brother. You will return with me to Asgard. You will serve your sentence with honor and then you will serve Asgard and Asgard alone. There is no dishonor in punishment, Loki, only in avoiding it. [Hard, hard lines. But they soften as he steps forward, if only minutely.] Return with me.

No. [ says Loki — or the shade wearing Loki's face, for soon it drains away like moonlight given liquid form. His voice is a mere murmur of sound upon the wind, with no tangible source.

And he watches from his perch upon a mortal-wrought building of ugly metal and stone, cosseted in the darkness. His true form, even the moonlight does not touch.

Yet there is a catch of his breath at the sight of crimson cape and golden hair: the eternal response of the secondborn to the first, where brotherhood has been forged and forged again with blades of iron far heavier than blood. ]

You stink of the mortals. [ says the wind, says Loki from his high perch. ] I find it offensive.

You will mourn the day I no longer fall for that. [And he means it, words rough with emotion, but there might come a day when he doesn't seek out Loki in fraternal affection, but only as something to be hunted down. He cannot foresee this day, for he does love his brother and would do anything to see him back in the fold.

But that does not mean it cannot or will not come to pass.]

Ragnarok will fall before that day comes to pass, I'm afraid.

[ And the wind shifts, just as quickly as it had come into being — a moment, another, and then Loki is materializing into solidity further into the darkened street upon which Thor now stands, his golden helm painted silver in the moonlight.

He's holding a gem that is as green as the Tesseract had been; its light spills over the clutch of his fingers. This can be only the reason why Thor has sought him out now, after months spent in Gladsheim's gilt halls.

The Infinity gems are precious beyond comparison, after all. ]

An event precipitated by your death, if the oracles are to be trusted.

And will you my death be at your hands, Loki? Is that truly what you want? [He points at Loki, then.] Think well on this, brother, for there is no coming back from your actions. Will you throw away centuries for one small fit of pique, a madness that might pass all too quickly and leave you with naught but the consequences you have seeded.

[He advances, then, hungry to see his brother. The ache of that missing sibling is like a piece of his soul gone, a place where the youngest son fits, no more laughter, no more smiles, no more conspiracy.]

[ A quiet laugh, nearly inaudible across the space between them. ]

Oh, your death will not come so soon. I wouldn't allow you even that paltry mercy.

[ He does not draw away from Thor's advance; his stillness is unnatural, manufactured, like a calm of reflection before the blade slips silver into the night. He is a serpent, coiled and ready to strike. ]

But do not mistake me — I will not return. You would sooner dash my brains upon the road and take my hollow corpse instead to the prison of Odin Child-Thief's crafting.

That mercy? It would be be a mercy. I suffer, Loki, I suffer so. [He continues until he is a foot away, uncaring if this is an illusion.] I used to have a brother, one I wronged. He was wicked and clever and I'd be dead thrice over if not for his magics.

But now he is lost and I would give much for him but to hear my apology. For him to understand that there is a place for him, not under the heel of a boot, not in a prison, but beside his oaf of a brother who is much less clever and wields only strength as his weapon.

You never had a brother, you fool.

[ Yet there is hesitation in the fall of his words, hesitation in the clench of his fists. Loki has to steel himself from taking a step back and therefore belying the weakness that Thor so easily elicits. ]

And thus there are no ears to hear your apology, and no heart to offer you another in return. Strike me, or leave me; there is no longer a third choice.

[Just the faintest hint of a smile, then.] Then I have no brother. [It does hurt to say.

But.]

Hail and well met, Prince Loki of Jotunheimr. I am Thor Odinson. We meet as equals and I would extend you every courtesy if you would but stay and speak with me a while?

[ An attempt that may have known success, had Loki been anyone but himself. If Thor has hated the Jotnar over the many centuries of their lives, then even that grotesque bloodlust is negligible in comparison to what Loki now feels for his blood brethren.

I am Loki, of Asgard, he had said to the mortals.

Lies, lies, lies. ]

What would you like to discuss, Prince Thor? Shall we sit together and reminisce over how gleefully you once proclaimed yourself the warrior that would hunt and slay all the monsters in the realms? Am I to be your next target, perhaps?

[Thor dropped to one knee, head bowed, laying his hammer sideways on the ground between himself and his once-brother.]

I am here to discuss how a fool might make amends to a Prince and people he mistakenly hated. [And looks up at Loki.] But who are now as dear to me as the Aesir.

And if I say that you cannot undo what you have done?

[ He has reined in his temper, but still his eyes are black with it, still his fists clench at his side.

Yet the sight of Thor before him is no trifle — no, indeed, it will fuel his black malice for many nights to come.

Loki draws forward, closing the distance between them; then he's stepping nearer a final time, letting his weight rest upon the foot that now commits blasphemy upon Mjolnir's face. He can feel the torrent of her elemental death-song, and it sends a sparking frisson down his spine. ]

I don't know. [He cannot let his mind move down that path for fear of even the thinking of such a thing making it true.] I've no desire to make the mistakes of the All Father, and if I have, Loki, if I have, then punish me for them, but only let there be forgiveness after.

[A few days as a mortal did not make this change in him, a few days as a mortal only introduced him to humility, but losing that which was most precious to him, his brother, the compatriot he had known all his life, that had cleaved pride from his chest and left there a gaping wound that had it been real, would surely be fatal.]

[ And if Thor had dragged himself free from the darkness of the sky and stolen Loki from the confines of the mortals' flying ship with such a measure of humility upon his tongue, perhaps there might have been a softening between them, a chance for the Fates to set and pave a new road forking from their own.

He grinds his heel into Mjolnir's face, violence committed for the sake of violence alone. The thrum of her blood-song only deepens in response. ]

Rise. [ says Loki, sharply, the word like a whiplash. ] You make a mockery of Hlidskjalf in your show of servility. Rise, cast off the weakness that the mortals have taught you, and take your punishment.

[Oh but he fears the treacherous spark of hope in his chest as he does as Loki bids and rises. Almost eager for the punishment because that of all things will mean forgiveness.

He is not best pleased to have Mjolnir trodden on so, but the slight will pass, a year, a decade is nothing in the span of millennia and this, shall pass.]

Only for you would I bend knee. [Then thinks better of saying more and waits in silence.]

[ Has Loki not taught him, once and again, through the valleys of treachery, atop the mountain peaks of malice, that hope will only serve to immolate the last remnants of their brotherhood?

Thor offers him the singularity of his subservience, and Loki's laughter roars within him, rattling through his mind, bones upon bones and steel upon steel. Outwardly, he is silent.

Of course Thor believes that the penance of Asgard's chosen will be enough to reel his wayward brother home. As if Thor is the end and the beginning of everything that Loki is.

(A liesmith does not deal in truths.)

When Loki speaks, he does so with careful solemnity. ]

Very well, then. Name yourself my champion, bound to me by oath and vow, for one task of my choosing.

[He knows, Loki. He knows you're going to ask something awful of him, something soul crushing. But he does not see himself as the Alpha and Omega of all, of where Loki begins and ends and what Loki revolves around.

He sees the wrongs he has done to you and way you ought to have been treated and wants to give you that.

So he raises his head and says] I, Thor Odinson, bind myself to Loki, on my name, on my honor, as his champion for one task of his choosing.

Edited 2012-11-22 01:19 (UTC)

[ In the end, he chooses her.

She had been the only one to truly best him, after all. While her companions fought with steel and brawn alone, she had looked upon him with her flickering mortal life already curling into smoke, and she had seen past the glint of teeth and eye to the shape of his mind beneath.

Because Loki is no madman to crow his adulation for power and glory upon the rooftops. No, better that a thousand blood eagles rise from split rib and flesh to soar into the clouds and sing of his victory instead. Better that SHIELD's lady spider tie the noose about her own neck, and smile in gratitude as she takes the step that will snap her own neck. ]

Natasha. [ says the master smith of lies, nothing more than a white sliver of moonlight in his threadbare tunic, in his fading britches. He comes to her as one who has seen nothing but cage after cage for an age, and his convalescence has not yet broken into health. It cannot, for Loki's sickness is heart-deep.

He is curled now in another of SHIELD's glass cages, looking upon her with a murmur of a smile. A week ago, he had followed the thread connecting master to thrall, and he had thus hidden Barton away. ] He calls for me, did you know? When the fear floods out sanity and memory: he thinks only of how my hand clasped his, how I made him more than mortal alone.

[ Her eyes blink. Once, then twice. There is nothing in her expression, as it should be, save the seamlessly constructed expression of someone who knows the weight of a lie. It won't be easy, like the time before: this isn't a questioning, this is a bargain, and she knows this as easily as she knew the in-between of his words. Loki might be slighter, his physicality smaller, but Natasha remembers the power of a god and what it means to be selfish. What it means to look at your hands and think this is not the end, because these claws can still tear with a hunger that pains the inside of your maw.

(She wonders what Clint is doing. If there is anything in relation to his disappearnce and the small rise in kidnapped girls, aging from seven to ten. All redheads.) ]

Give him back. [ It's phrased as a demand and disguised under neutrality: there, a tiny kernel of something other, carries the shuttered words. To me; give him back to me.

Natasha wouldn't be herself if she had given Loki alternatives. No bargain, no plea. There's no pretense this time (fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, as that saying goes), no take me instead — just a chair that creaks when she leans forward, arms braced on her knees. She looks at him through the brief smudge of glass.

(Give him back to me, she doesn't say. Before he becomes you.) ]

Edited 2012-11-22 09:46 (UTC)

[ Oh, she may not let the sentiment drip from the eaves of her mouth, but Loki hears it all the same. Lies are no object, not when his gaze has been sharpened by months of captivity. He is a skeletal apparition of his former self, pared down to the necessity of only malice and manipulation.

In the end, she cannot understand. Barton was made and unmade, the song of the hawk changed in tempo and key until Loki alone knew to conduct its crescendo.

(If Barton calls for her beyond the shroud of Loki's influence, then it is no matter: she will never hear it. Because the blackness of space cannot be traversed by words nor will, only by power taken and power lost. Loki is a sorcerer; he has spent his life giving away the sweetest parts of himself for that power.

No, she cannot understand.) ]

You misunderstand. He does not wish to return.

[ He is calmer now than he was when the Chitauri first spilled their fury upon Midgard, but the brittleness of ice remains. ]

I am his god, now, beyond love, beyond hatred. Beyond the pettiness of emotion that drives the flicker of a mortal lifetime. Why do you deserve his service more than I do?

[ The seabirds tear the sky ragged with their shrill ugly calls, and yet a peculiar sort of silence reigns. Loki sits coiled in his bastion of sand and salt, his fingertips light upon a page of a book whose title has long since been scoured away by time's unforgiving hand. But his eyes are set forward, past his own curled shadow, into the white rolling waves of the sea.

They had all come today, Thor and his retinue of sycophants — charming Fandral, noble Hogun, boisterous Volstagg, and the Lady Sif herself. Thor had considered them friends: all of them, including Loki's narrow shadow amongst their number, but long has it been since Loki has shared his brother's opinion.

Thor had challenged the Warriors Three to a swimming competition, and now they are mere specks of color upon the horizon. Loki, with the eye for observation that all those blessed with seid have learned to cultivate, watches the sea, and he watches the sky, and lastly — he watches Sif.

Sif, one day meant to stand as a golden shadow to Asgard's king. Loki flicks his fingers idly, a smile curling across his face. He looks young and guileless in his high-collared green tunic, perched upon the sand like a hollow-boned bird. And yet his seid draws forth a monstrous wave, large enough to swallow the banks upon which he rests.

It is little more than an illusion, but Sif won't know that. ]

'ware, my lady! [ He calls out, wearing innocent distress upon his face with practiced ease. ] Even you would find no husband amongst Asgard's many if you allow the sea to make a corpse of you.

[ The moon shrivels to a speck of dust in the sky, and another rises to take its place. The winter-king forgets his own name, he forgets the joy of his youth, and he remembers only the hunger of the valdyr, the pain of the white-faced dryads. Winter devours everything upon the lands, until the soil is barren, and even the skies above are barren of light.

He grows bitter and cruel. He ceases to sing of his prophecies entirely, for the future has already proved itself to wrought of little other than suffering heaped upon suffering. He learns to steal from the creatures under his own dominion. Their blood runs hot through his veins, and still he is but a black tower of waning life in the gyre of snow and sleet. Everywhere he travels, the earth is crusted over with the frost. Every moment of warmth left upon winter's country is sucked of marrow and swallowed whole.

A thousand years after the winter-king was gifted with a boon more precious than his own life (a name shaped by a single syllable, sweet as a rune-spell upon his tongue), the mortals come.

Hordes of them, naked and dumb as beasts in the snow. And yet their minds are sharpened by the pain that the cruel winter-king looses upon them: they learn to conjure fire from the violence of stone against stone, to hide their nakedness behind fur and leather, and to build shelters of wood and brush. They speak in the words and sing the melodies that the winter-king teaches to them.

For a time, he knows contentment. That his dominion has lost the beauty of his youth matters no more, for now he has mortal subjects who bow to his will, and who worship him for the god that he has become. He is as powerful of the sallow moon hung upon the sky, and as distant as the shadow of a star, so they offer him part of all they have, even in the worst years of his winter.

And yet — there is a land beyond winter's peaks verdant with life, a land that the winter-king once loved more than his own. Beauty and bounty are plentiful within its borders, and its summer-king is the most beautiful of all. When the sleet drives its way past the meager wood of their shelters, the mortals climb down the slopes of winter's mountains and find, to their delight, the land of summer.

A hundred years pass. The mortals have forgotten the winter-king, and again he grows bitter and vicious in his isolation.

This time, when he descends from his palace of ice to meet with the king of summer, he brings the winter with him. Every blade of green falls to the frost where he treads. The skies roil with a storm barely leashed, and the red berries upon the bushes grow white with fallen snow. ]

Thor-king. [ says the voice of winter, like the cracking of ice beneath a great weight. The snow has caught in his eyelashes and in the dark fall of his hair, but otherwise he is unadorned; only the fall of a fur-lined shift retains his modesty. Bare-footed and lean as a hungry wolf, the winter-king summons the only lover he has ever known. ] Thor-king, betrayer!

[ Once as a young man Thor lived some of his years in the kingdom of winter, in the embrace of his lover the winter lord, at his table and in his bed at night, warming the cold slick sheets and heavy drape of furs with his own body. Though the cold pierced and abated by turns, though his own kingdom was washed by rain and wind in his absence, and eventually by soft falls of snow, the beasts and the dryads and all the subjects of his own realm made to shore up their resources and do without plenty while they waited for their lord's return, still he stayed and loved and brought warmth and laughter to the cold halls of winter, brought passion and sweet yielding to the king's bed.

And though he had once imagined the lord of winter swelled and ripe with the fruit of his seed, it was he who eventually was sown; when he felt the life beginning to grow within his body, Thor saw at last his own terrible weakening: saw how the stark beauty of winter and the cold touch of his lover leeched the warmth and life from his body, turning him pale and sleepy and pliant, how he slept long hours in Loki's bed, waking only to offer himself in love and desire to his beautiful, beloved king. Here he was no king of his own right but Loki's consort, and the winter was killing him.

As it would kill the life within him, if he let it. As it would kill all the realm of summer.

And so Thor, without guile, one dawn simply kissed his sleeping lover farewell and left his bed, left his palace, walked staggering down the mountainside until at last he felt the sun warm and golden upon his skin, and its strength lend itself to his.

There was warmth and peace in summer again, but not so much laughter; his heart broken, his body aching in its hollow desire for his cold lover, Thor eventually bore their two children, a son and daughter, Autumn and Spring.

When the children have grown and left his kingdom to found their own, Thor is alone again, a man in the prime strength and years of his life: broad and virile, the antlers proud upon his head, his beard thick, his hands devastating in their brutal strength and unerring gentleness. But he does not take another lover, his heart yet unmended, his body yet hollowed by the hunger of the one he has loved and lost, as Loki had once warned him: an inevitability, that Thor should someday know the pain of parting.

And so when the winter intrudes upon his kingdom, the borders crossed in what could be called an act of outright war, his whole body lights in grieving fury and savage joy.

He strides from the greenwood palace with Mjolnir in hand, the beasts who have never feared their gentle, loving king scattering before his ground-shaking steps. And there is Loki upon the fields frozen by his malicious seidr, naming him betrayer, and Thor stands to meet him, clad in deerskin and gold as once he had met him before: but where Loki has grown whip-lean and hollow-eyed, Thor is even broader and taller than he once was, the antlers proud upon his brow. What would it be like now, if they were wrapped in one another's arms; whose strength would prevail? ]

I am here, Loki. [ he calls to him, his voice deep and resonant. ] By what right do you call me betrayer?

Edited 2012-11-23 11:20 (UTC)

[ Loki.

His own name, given new life and beauty by a tongue now unknown to him. Yet in that moment, when the winter-king becomes Loki again, a thousand colorful memories slide from the bilgewaters at the back of his mind, widening the dark gleam of his eyes, and — for a moment — loosening the tight clench of his jaw.

But the moment passes, for alongside the joys and the tenderness of years long past come the knowledge of treachery twisted even beyond the understanding of the cruel king of winter. Thor had stolen his children. Not only the mortals with their fragile bones and their empty minds, but his own flesh and blood, beautiful even whilst but a glimmer of growing life within.

How can he abide?

And the sight of summer's king before him only stokes the blizzard of his fury to colder, blacker heights. Above him, clouds gather to blot out the stars, about him, the snow and the sleet buffets all in its path. All but the pale slice of white flesh made gnarled and cruel by Thor's hand. How dare he stand more god than king now, when Loki was the first to know himself as the divine? How dare he grow more beautiful in his isolation, how dare he flaunt his mantle of warmth and joyous plenty before the one who has known such things for but a breathless moment of his life?

(Because this is the way of things, says the wind, this is what you were meant to be, says the gift of prophecy that sings in the hollowness of the winter-king's heart. Because life is less precious without the promise of death to follow.)

So the ice forms into blades along Loki's arms, long, hungry blades that cut furrows into the land when he lets his arms hang. If there was love between them once, he has buried it beneath his sorrow. ]

You've stolen all that was mine. [ he roars in return, but his voice is a brittle thing, splintering under the weight of his rage. ] You, gifted with all the bountiful plenty of your wretched summer — you took more than I knew to give. And so you will pay your final penance.

[ The earth splits between the thrust of ice from Loki's hands, Loki's arms; life freezes and shrivels and withers away, and Thor sees again the cruelty of winter which his beautiful, strong, vulnerable body could no longer abide, all those years ago. Winter kills, winter suffers and sorrows and teaches loneliness and desolation, and even the sweetness of summer's kiss can only warm it for so long. He roars in fury, swings out Mjolnir, shatters the blades of ice in one fell swipe of its blunt savagery. ]

Would you have my plenty as yours? Would you take it now, Loki? You who sang the death of our love the first night we lay together?

[ Mjolnir strikes and the thunder roars, the dark clouds of summer storm and fury driving back the winter. Thor flings himself after his beloved, and the land trembles beneath the clash of their weapons, trembles beneath the booming of thunder, as Mjolnir swings again and again, driving the king of winter back to his own borders. ]

And who will take my penance from me? Will it be you, my heart?

[ Yes, he stole their children. From the jaws of death he stole them into life, that they might grow and become strong, become queen and king, become warriors and mothers and lords of their own choosing, and that they might one day know the father who sowed them. And when the mortals fled to his green lands, Thor opened his arms and took them in, sent daughter and son to show them how to plant and how to harvest, that they might one day understand how to bear the cruel empty months of winter, so that they might one day return to the mountains and learn for themselves the true beauty and quiet peace of that kingdom.

He knew there would be no such return for him. ]

[ Every time the blades shatter, they reform again crueler and sharper than the last. There is no dearth of ice in winter's heart, and no end to the fury of its storm.

Still, Loki is thrust back with each of Mjolnir's blows, hardly able to stand trenchant against the shattering assault. Winter preys upon the flickering life that has been starved and frozen, but summer is no meager creature to be cowed by wind and snow.

Oh, Loki saw this day when he was still young and eager; he saw how Thor would look upon him with pity and rage, and he had feared it, once. He fears it still, but the promise of an end does not figure in those fears — no, he has lived long and lived poorly, and finally only Thor will bow his golden head to mourn him. None other.

Such is the fate of the winterborn.

Loki had come here, once, the gentleness of song upon his lips. It breaks free from him again, but this time it is more akin to the jeering of the raven, the murderous cries of the falcon.

My heart, Thor would call him, as if the chasm between them has not grown teeth; Loki's eyelashes clump with snow and rain and loathsome sentiment. ]

Yes. [ he shouts, with each wheeling cry. ] Bare your throat, King of Summer, and let me anoint the land with your blood — else take up your strength and strike me down now — !

[ His strength and the storms drive winter back to the brink of its own realm, and there Thor catches Loki with one hand around his throat and the other swinging Mjolnir, shattering another gleaming blade of ice that would shatter his ribs apart and pierce heart and lungs in a gushing of dark blood. Then he pulls Loki near with that savage grasp and kisses him, claiming for himself again the cold lips that once parted in sweet yielding for him, that shared laughter and song and passion between their mouths. How diminutive Loki has become, lean and furious as a starving wolf, and Thor drops his weapon and wraps him into his arms, pulling him up against all his own great and brutally hewn frame: a body whose devastating strength has only ever been used in the realization of joy and love.

Then he lets go and thrusts Loki back, standing with one foot in summer and one in winter, torn between them as he has ever been, and Thor stands proud and unafraid and opens wide his arms, lifting his chin to bare his throat. Like the king stag, the great beast who comes every year on the eve of the shortest night: the sacrifice who offers himself. ]

Come then, Loki, my love; take my life if you will have it, then take this war of yours and bear it home to your own realm.

[ His voice is gentled now, the storm wrought of fury and grief gone from it, as the storm wrought above is now receding; the clouds thin and the twilit sky shows through, dusky and warm with the first brave gleaming of stars.

Thor does not fear death anymore. He has lived long, and known the hollow ache of a heart torn asunder, and would count it no great tragedy if his blood were spilled today, now that a son or a daughter might take up his crown. ]

Else put down your arms and come with me: there are things I would show you, and matters upon which we must speak.

[ And Loki wavers between the extremes of the decision posed to him, and for once he cannot hide the battle within him from rising to mar his white face.

Because his body still trembles in the aftermath of Thor's embrace, even a scant moment of that coveted warmth a reminder of how poorly his memories have reconstructed what he has missed for an eternity. The guttural rhythm of his death-song dies in the graveyard of his fading hatred, and Loki shifts his weight from foot to foot and back again, his arms wrapped about himself. The blades do not reform again, even though ice creeps past his fingertips to circle his wrists, and even though his scant raiment is stiff with the frost.

The snow and the sleet does not quiet; Loki's hair is whipped up in the torrent, flicking shadows across his face.

Here is victory, waiting for him to reach out and take hold of it. All the lands will thus be enveloped by the ice, and all will know Loki and Loki alone as a king and a god. They will fear him, and they will turn their faces from him, but he will grow fat and content upon the feast of power that he will spread upon his tables. Never again will he know the agony of separation, for summer will become a relic of the past.

(Oh, the winter-king is a liar still.)

When the ice-blade finally renews itself, Loki's teeth have sunk into his own lip, and blood wells and well until it streaks his chin with crimson. In a blur of movement he forces its point to the apple of Thor's throat, where it hovers, where it shakes and trembles and does not press strongly enough to draw the blood of the summer-king. ]

I will come. [ he says, and his voice is nearly lost in the rage of his storm. And then he's shifting away, the blade melting to icy water, the skies above slowly quieting their thunder. ] As a fool and a traitor to my own self, I will come — but do not think that I have forgotten my warmongering.

[ The blade pricks, it burns with cold, but it does not pierce, though Thor waits with patient, liquid eyes and his body opened for the thrust of death. It does not come; it withdraws instead, and Loki stands stark with rage and perhaps longing, too, so that the king of summer aches for him and wishes for their youth, for the days when he could have drawn Loki down into his arms, laid him between sweet-smelling sheets and furs and comforted him with his warmth, with the press of their naked skin. Instead he reaches and takes Loki's hand, drawing him back into the realm of summer.

Once he had thought they could both belong here, that they could both live forever. ]

This way. There is something you have not seen before.

[ It is as it was when they were young, Thor leading Loki by the hand, but this time the lord of winter trembles not in wonder but in fury, and Thor treads gentle but heavy-hearted upon the earth. He does not take him across the long stretch of green and gold field, but leads into the dark forest, by a winding path shrinking narrower and narrower between the broad old trunks of kingly trees, their crowns of thick leaves thrust proudly into the sky. The king of summer has walked this path many times before, and the life which springs beneath his feet is all of twisted vine and dark weed, grasping wild growth.

At last a glen in the wood, and a small hut with thatched roof, wildflowers at the door. Smoke curls gray from the peak of the roof; within, the floor is packed earth strewn with herbs, and more hang in drying bunches from the eaves, and a pot over the brazier fills the space with an earthy scent and the smell of rabbit roasted and stewed. There is a garden to one side of the hut, small and laboriously toiled. The bed in the corner is nearly too small for his frame. ]

My home. [ says Thor, when he has brought Loki within. ] When I am not needed at the palace. It is too sweet there: the dryads sing for me, but I ache for want of your voice. They put feasts before me, but it sits overrich upon my tongue, and there is no one with which to share it. The children did not live long with me; they hungered for the world beyond summer, and I had not the heart to forbid them to fly where their wings would take them. And so this has become my refuge. I have found peace here, but no joy, since our parting.

[ A hundred times does Loki's mind stray from the path at hand, thinking of the edge of his blade, and a hundred times again he slakes his desire for vengeance with a sweeter boon — the weight of Thor's hand in his own, and the warmth of the sun upon skin pulled taut over ragged bone. In his own land, the ice would have reached to meet him, crowning him with shards that glittered like diamond and glass; here, even the vines growing gnarled and wild draw away from his frost-lined footsteps.

It had not been so, when he had first ventured here. The sun and the sky and the fields of gold had welcomed him as joyfully as their king.

Loki draws closer, stepping only in the great shadow fallen behind Thor, hiding his face in shame. Winter had once known a brightness equal to its cruelty; it had once known color and light as compelling as that of the summerlands. No longer is that true.

And his shame only heightens when Thor leads him into the secret glen hidden beyond the tangle of the woods. There is no magic that crowns the trees with gold, no ancient will that beautifies the thatched roof and the hanging herbs, and yet in the midst of this simplicity Loki finds his breath catching in his throat. He stills in the doorway, the earth warm under his bare feet, and he pulls his hand away when the attempt is made to draw him within. ]

You should not have brought me here. [ says Loki. The rage was a shackle, moments ago, and now the cold iron bite of it has been replaced by heavier resignation. His hands are curled over the shaft of wood rising to form the doorway, and his fingertips idly stroking the smooth grain, again, again, feverishly.

(If only—)

Already the wildflowers at his feet begin to blacken. ]

You have seen what I have become. You saw it, when you left my lands heavy with the life we wrought. You ache for a creature lost.

[ He does not mean to cause Loki agony or shame by bringing him again into his kingdom, taking him deep into the heart of the woods to this ascetic shelter amidst the old trees. He only means to show him how he lives now, the turning of his life since the days when they were lovers. Yet Loki stands at the door with suffering in every line of his body, and Thor knows that the shame is his, that he had ever brought pain to the winter king's hard, that he had ever let him know betrayal and abandonment, no matter how necessary.

Thor moves towards him and lifts his fingers to touch Loki's raven hair. The dark strands fall straight and unadorned, without crystals or crowns or any of the accoutrements his lover once wore, bedecked in the beauty and glory of a king. How Thor had loved to see him so, how he had ached for him when he lived with his lord in the winter palace. He watches Loki's fingers stroke the frame of the threshold with an absent fervor, and he wishes that elegant white touch was upon him, upon his own skin. That pleasure, that intimacy could smooth away pain. ]

Will you tell me now my own desire, my heart?

[ He sweeps aside the black curtain of Loki's hair and leans down to kiss the vulnerable white nape of his neck. His hands settle upon narrow hips, Loki's body thin and bony in his hands; while he has grown ever more beautiful in his age and sorrow, Loki has withered and starved, as though bereft not only of joy and laughter but of sustenance itself. ]

If you will not destroy me, then what would you do? I would have you live here with me. [ His lips are tender on Loki's skin. An arm winds around his waist, his hand resting low on his belly, drawing their hips together, as though in memory of the intimacy they once shared. ] I would renounce my kingship. I would live only for you.

[ Loki stiffens in the embrace, every new tenderness awakening in him yearnings that he has learned to thrust deep beyond the encasement of ice that his heart has become. Yet Thor's arms are the foundation upon which he had once stood to drag his fingertips through the sky. If the winter had given Loki life, then it had been Thor who had made life more than an endless search for victuals and firelit warmth. ]

Can the sun and the moon hide away? Do the stars know to sit upon their thrones?

[ Still, his hands slide down the smooth grain of wood, until they drop away entirely to rest over Thor's own. After a moment of silence — not hesitation, but a gathering of will, a steeling of a mind accustomed instead to icy gyre and black rime — he presses his fingers between, twining the hands of winter and summer with true meaning for the first time in a millennium. ]

No. [ says Loki, before Thor can offer an answer. He is twisting in Thor's arms, suddenly, his hands a white flash of motion before they settle upon Thor's bearded cheeks.

Oh, the difference between them — the ruddy golden flesh against the paper-thin white. Even the cruelty of winter's frost is a meager defiance. ] You are a king. Even at the perilous summit of my anger, I have never wished it any other way.

[ Loki's eyes meet his and the green of them is so dark as to be nearly black, the light that once glowed in them gone now, trampled out beneath the ages of suffering and grief and bitter rage. And it is like a blade to Thor's heart to see that, so painful it nearly sets him to gasping; but instead he leans down and covers Loki's mouth with his, stealing for himself the tender desire he would have them share with one another again. Even as Loki cups his face between his hands, Thor gathers him into his arms, arms even stronger and harder than those that once held the king of winter in their forbidden embraces.

Perhaps there was nothing in which their love could have ended but sorrow or death. Yet he had made a promise to Loki never to fall by his hand, and Thor had kept his vow. ]

Is it so?

[ His voice is soft, his lips at Loki's cheek, yet Thor pushes him back against the wall of the hut with hunger in the broad hands which hold him. The lord of winter is thin and narrow and brittle beneath his touch, but still he hitches him up between wood and the unyielding press of his own body. He has strength enough for them both; let that strength be breathed back into his lover's form. Can they not know each other again, share heat and desire again, and perhaps find, if not new joy, healing and wholeness? ]

Then come and be my subject, my beauty, my prince of winter. Come and live beside me as my own. [ His voice is rough, whispering, his mouth at Loki's ear. ] If you will not let me renounce my kingdom for you, then renounce yours for me: for I have never let you go from my heart. You know that, do you not?

[ Oh, it would be simplicity itself to name Thor the worst of liars, to fly off the precipice of his fury, and to die here amongst the rubble of a life Thor had crafted for want of him alone. It would be a divine end to a story writ and acted by the divine themselves, and Loki would not begrudge the King of Summer one last vow broken.

Because Loki-king had forgotten himself in the wake of a betrayal he had seen as motivated by condescension, by malice, by anger. That Thor had left him, and taken the last gifts that Loki had sown, because he had finally seen the truth of it — that winter was no place for a king of his stature, of his great and glorious warmth. That Loki himself was but a leech of his majesty, and hardly a king in his own right.

But there is forgiveness and there is the seeking of forgiveness in Thor's eyes. That gold-fringed gaze has never known malice and anger the likes of which Loki has cultivated over the centuries; to name him liar and betrayer would be worse than committing murder upon a blade of ice. ]

I know it now. [ says Loki, in a soft, faltering voice. His mouth is a broken curve, his words lost against the press of Thor's skin. ] Yet — even if I make a dowry of my lands, winter will follow. Your country will know both the warmth of the summer sun and the blade of the north wind's scythe. [ And though his eyes are black, and his skin white and thin and run through with blue veins, there is steel yet in the set of his jaw, in the grasping strength of his hands upon Thor's shoulders. ] Can you bear it — [ And, after but a heartbeat of hesitation: ] —my king?

To have you, beloved, there is nothing else I would wish for more.

[ His answer is a quiet one, but there is the weight of sincerity upon every word. To have light, to have plenty, to have the warmth of the sun upon his back and the growth of crops which come spilling over to his table, more a feast than even the god of the summer could ever consumer--what good any of it when his table is empty, his palace without a consort, his bed without a lover to warm the sheets?

Summer is beauty and plenty still, but where once Thor knew nothing more than contentment beneath the endlessly blue skies and the soft fields of grass in which to lie, when all his desire was in the warmth and peace of his own kingdom, then came Loki to show him so much more than he had ever known of fulfillment.

Thor's kingdom is empty without him. ]

Why now should our realms be apart, when we have known each other as though we were one body? [ He turns his head, kisses Loki's mouth, and speaks longing at his lips, holding him pinned. ] When you have sown me and I have given you children of your blood, when we have been thrall and master in turn to one another? Give yourself to me, my love, and I will take all that comes with you. Or else put your blade to my throat and spill my blood upon this earth. I cannot bear to be apart from you.

[ The mortals will suffer. The children born of the braided fiber of divinity: they, too, will suffer. If summer was unselfish in its generosity, it would drive out the incumbent winter before its breath could sweep the life from the valleys of plenty, from the mortal villages filled with cheer. If Thor could forget his own heart, none in all the world would again know the pain of a starving belly again. ]

You have become more selfish than ever you taught me to be. [ And yet even as he speaks the shadows in his eyes begin to fragment. He does not fight against the hold; no, he surrenders himself to it, his dark head falling back to rest against the wooden slats of the wall.

The future spirals into shadows in the distance, and even Loki's gift of prophecy is not enough to illuminate the path set ahead. A choice, then, a fork in the road — but Loki knew which turn he would choose before even Thor looked upon him with love in his eyes. He knew, when he woke to a bedchamber bereft of all but ice and shadow. What is Loki without Thor?

He takes a shallow breath, enough to whet his lungs with the warm sunlit musk of summer's king. His arms tighten about Thor's shoulders, drawing him closer still. His voice is nigh inaudible, so softly does he speak. ] Then come nearer to me, my king. I have been so very cold.

[ Then let mortals and gods alike know that life, that joy and generosity and love, are as precious as they are fleeting; that the dark valleys of sorrow make the bright peaks of happiness all the more golden and beautiful. The winter sang to him of this, the first night they lay together, and Thor did not understand it then. He did not understand it in the years they passed together, in summer first and then in winter; he learned it at last the night he kissed Loki farewell and walked away from his realm heavy with his children. Then he knew what grief was, and a pain so piercing that only the memory of his greatest love could sustain him.

And if it is selfishness to love his lord of winter more than he does anything else--if, when the chance to have him again is put within his reach, it is selfishness to grasp him with both hands and vow never to let go, then let him be selfish. Let all the world be bound by the love between them.

He hushes Loki with his mouth, strength and tenderness in the hands which hold him, and a swelling of desire in all his body which holds his beloved pinned to the wall of this hut which has been his only solace for long seasons. He will not take him back to the greenwood palace, not yet. Let them have this small hidden place all to themselves, let them live in the unspoiled joy of reunion for as long as they might before the rest of the world intrudes; only then will Thor go back with him, hand in hand, not merely as lovers this time but as consorts, as sovereigns together. ]

Does this warm you? [ A kiss and a kiss again, his voice murmuring and rough with wanting. ] My mouth upon you? My touch?

[ He pulls open the plain fur shift which hides Loki's body from him, lets it slip to the ground to be discarded and forgotten; only his hands, his body, the sheets of his bed to cover Loki's nakedness now. Oh, pale and thin and hungry, his beloved lord of winter: how he has starved and suffered, how cruelly he has used himself in the years since their parting; Thor's hands are warm upon him, smoothing over his skin as though his touch might heal all pain.

Then he goes to his knees before him, kissing his hip, taking his cock in hand and bringing it to his mouth to taste. His lips and tongue play at the tip, soft and teasing, flirting, stroking, slow wetness and heat lathed at the crown of sweet arousal. ]

[ If they are gods, do they not have the right of self-indulgence? Loki has spent his existence walking the lands created by his own footsteps; he has taught the mountains to tower, the trees to grow, the birds to sing. He taught the mortals to speak, to walk, to eat from the sacrificed beasts of the land. Is it not time for him to reap the fields he has sown?

If he is a god, it is his right.

And yet looking upon the spill of sunlit hair across his own naked white thighs, Loki feels less a god and more of a worm white upon the black earth, worthy of neither the warmth of Thor's hands or mouth. Or of the sweet comfort of his words, those that have already shown Loki's heart again what it means to be whole and unhurt.

Oh, perhaps one day he will be the consort of a great god-king, and he will eat of a table provided by the sun and the earth, by mortals who will always love their summer-king more than his silvered shadow.

And will Loki not be amongst their numbers, offering his body to slake and be slaked in turn? Will he not offer tribute with every glance askance? ]

Not yet. [ He says, softly. His body cants backwards, unsteady, trembling, and he barely manages to brace himself before he falls splayed against the narrow bed of Thor's crafting. His breath catches between his teeth. He speaks as if bespelled, the words spoken as if from a dream. ] The cold has sunk deep. Deeper than your reach.

[ And Loki dare not reach out and touch the golden hair, nor the rough cheek, for he knows that he would draw forth heat and love and succor more than even the summer-king can provide. Loki would drink him dry, and thus murder him with plaintive desire instead of hatred alone. ]

Hush, beloved. Be patient; I will warm you.

[ A rough voice, a promise made that perhaps he cannot keep, but Thor is reckless and relentless both, following Loki to where he has sprawled back against the simple mattress, made of clean linen and stuffed with down. Dried bunches of herbs fragrant between the sheets; a soft reddish-brown animal pelt which was once a gentle-eyed doe. He has lived simply here and sadly, but sweetly, too, filling his days with the quiet fulfillment of work and crafting. Now Loki lies upon the bed of the only home he could bear to make for himself, and he realizes now how he had always hoped to have his love in his arms here. How he had hoped to share its peace with him.

His mouth brushes at his inner thigh, his beard, and Thor nuzzles then at Loki's cock, kisses, noses and plays at the underside of the shaft; his hands brace themselves upon the bed with the beautiful, desolate lord of winter between them, and he climbs up the length of his body, pushes him down to the mattress, settles his own weight, the great breadth and length of his body down against him. Thor kisses him slowly, catching his face between his two hands, while all his body knows desire and wanting and more than that: the urge to shelter him, to caress and cradle him to wholeness.

He leans upward at last, rearing upright upon his knees, and Thor makes swift work of his own garments, stripping them away. Naked and golden, he bends again for another kiss, then shifts up against the headboard, drawing apart the pelt and sheets so that he and Loki might slip beneath them. ]

Come here, come lie in my arms.

[ Isolation has left him greedy for the sight of each shifting moment of bared skin, and yet his body remains a torn strip of vellum, sodden and frayed at the edges. Even the touch of mouth and tongue upon his cock had done little more than to draw out sunlit memory of a hundred such moments in the handful of months that summer and winter had once known communion.

Loki rises to his knees, crawling forward across the doeskin, the ladder of his spine shifting obscenely under the naked cloak of his skin; he draws himself upwards just enough to touch a palm to the warmth of Thor's shoulder, to sweep along the swell of it until his fingertips rest in the hollow of Thor's throat.

A temptation, even now.

Yet the moment passes soon into silence, and Loki casts off his malice into the sea lapping at the rocky shore of his mind — there it sinks, hiding beneath the black waves until Loki would cast his net again to call it hence.

Now he slips beneath the warm drape proffered to him, his hand steady upon the join of golden throat to shoulder, and he spreads his knees to straddle the width of Thor's hips below. The heat rises to warm his skin as if the open flame of Thor's body lies a thousand leagues away, so deeply has the cold wrapped itself about winter's king. ]

Did they seek to leave your kingdom because they share the coldness of my heart? [ asks Loki Winterborn, his hands splayed upon Thor's chest, his head bowed, his hair a tumbling chaos of shadow. The words have no bearing on the graceful shift of movement wrought by the fragmented body upon Thor's great thighs. Yet he speaks like a child, with the same plaintive note that had once kept Thor near to him through summer breeze and winter blizzard both. ] The children. Our children.

[ Loki beds down against him, a vole shivering in its dark empty den while the storm rages all around, and Thor's arms closing around him are the shelter, or so he would have it; he pulls up the furs and blankets to cover them both, and draws the lord of winter with tender strength against him, wrapping as much of his own frame around him as he possibly can. The king of summer is risen for him, swelled by the depths of longing which have welled up within him again and turned themselves into a simmering heart of desire like the heart of an ember, but there is more patience in him, perhaps, than there was when he was young. He is satisfied enough, cradling Loki near.

For he has missed this intimacy perhaps most of all. Cool white skin, soft raven hair tickling his lips, the dip and ridge of a narrow spine, too stark against the translucent skin and muscle of his back. Narrow, sharp, hard, thin plains: this is Loki's body, the landscape of all the years of emptiness and hunger and rage. Thor strokes him with great hands holding great strength, made tender by his own grief. Tears come, silent and hot, trickling down his cheeks into his beard, and he weeps them unashamedly, only holding Loki still closer so that his black hair dampens and Thor's lips are pressed to the top of his head. ]

No. They had no coldness to them, though Autumn was solemn, and wished for solitude, and Spring sand as sweetly as you do, so that the dogs and the deer used to lay at her feet to listen. [ His voice is hoarse. ] They were strong, eager children. There was nothing for them here.

[ Loki remains quiet and dry-eyed, though his body is a hook cast into the bolstering strength of Thor about him. Every breath is full and hot with the scent of sun-warmed skin, of desire sharpened and polished for his focus alone. In the end, the summer-king had chosen foremost with his heart — the winter-king might have sneered upon the tears and the fool's paradise of generosity so freely given, but Loki himself only dips his lips to the golden arch of Thor's throat, so as to better leave his gleaming mark.

And his hands are as cruel as the mind that lies beyond the brackish green of Loki's eyes, but now they smooth and slide and press, across skin once more familiar than his own. When the weight of Thor's cock finally rests in the circle of his fingers, Loki looses a fragment of a sigh, stroking once and again the heated swell, remembering well the life and vigor Thor had once given him with the merest shift of his hips. ]

Will I never see them? [ asks Loki, after he has quieted the bile of jealous anger that had risen again — oh, that his children had shared his gifts and his terrors, and yet not once he had not been allowed to soothe and to share his own with them in turn. ]

[ Cold fingers stroke along his warm skin, so that Thor shivers remembering those hands upon him in the bed where he was sown by Loki's seed, a marriage bed in all but name, where he knew soft quiescent joy beneath the icy ardor of winter. Where he would lie, and Loki would come within him, and the long, slow, sweet fucking was as an endless stroking of his lord's cock into the warm yielding depths of him, a joining that would last hours, days, weeks before cool, plentiful seed flooded within him and he knew his own exhausted satiation. How dangerously seductive it had been to dwell in that bed, to wish to dwell in it forever, lost to sleep and dreaming in between the eternity of their joining.

He closes his eyes, breathes out shaken, his cock heavily weighted in Loki's hand, hot and thick between the gentle stroke of cold fingers. His own hands delve into his hair and he draws the long black strands over his wet cheeks, over his lips, strands soft as silk. So much beauty still in the stark creature Loki has become, that he almost cannot bear it: and how easy it would be to vow himself again, to give his life once more into the hands of the prince of winter, to willingly lay body and spirit before him in recompense for the betrayals, the agonies of the past. ]

Surely they will seek you. Often they asked after their father.

[ He speaks murmuring at Loki's temple, and wraps him closer still in his arms. Broad arms, broad strength to hold him near. He shall never let him go again. ]

[ Perhaps he would not take it, were it to be offered so; no gift of body or spirit can ease the eternity of isolation that has frozen and shattered heart-blood once sweet and crimson with love. Perhaps it was folly to see himself as master, and the golden spread of summer's love upon his bed as mastered — for are they not god and god alike, sewn from the fabric of eternity, stitched through with silver and golden thread? Even now, when Loki curls his hand into a cool fist about the heft of Thor's cock, even now he is but a channel, a conduit, meant to carry the warmth of Thor's love within himself. There is no master between them, and thus neither can be mastered.

Loki knows this, beyond the corruption that his jealousy has inflicted. No longer can he call upon the ice and the snow to shackle Thor-king to himself; he had been a fool once to believe himself capable of overwhelming prophecy, but no longer will he descend into the same gaping chasm of complacency. ]

They will not see what you see. Your children, your people — they will look upon you with pity, not pride.

[ His tone a steady murmur, without inflection. His hand works still, his thumb pressing into the tender skin below the crown's ridge, his fingers spread and curled about the heavy heat of the shaft. His thigh rises below the drape of fur and linen, his leg hooking over Thor's, fitting them inextricably together. ]

And yet I do not love you enough to release you from your own folly. [ As he lifts his chin to seek a kiss, the light slants across his face, blanching the last of the color from his face. He looks as if he is wrought from marble, from ivory.

And in the next moment, Loki remembers the heat and the pain of lust. His breath falls from parted lips, soft and sibilant. ]

[ He has mastered and been mastered in turn. And knowing the both, he knows only that all love, all passion, all cruelty and heartbreak can come only from this shard of winter who rests in his arms, for no matter what they are to one another there is only each other. There is nothing else. That same spirit and body, the great heart which beats within his breast all cry out their hunger for Loki, the pain of their parting, with no hour of peace known to him since he tore himself from his beloved's side. So did Thor learn what love is. It is a shackle, to him, yet he wears this golden chain with sorrowful pride. To have been young and ignorant is the folly of a hundred years ago. He thought himself content, in those indolent years; he had never known what completion was.

So as Loki's fingers work steadily at the swell of his cock, a great tremor comes upon him like the earth shaking underfoot, but he neither urges nor retreats; his hands are tender as they cup Loki's face, as the winter presses near enough for the kiss, his lips parting easily under the spell of it. It is as though he never left Loki's bed. Yet it is all changed, and the weight of grief and betrayal lays between them, with Thor's strong hands and Loki's bitter love to reach between them.

He shifts, pushing the winter to his back, weighing him down from above. Thor kisses and kisses him, tender, thorough, patiently searching his mouth as though to learn anew the cold sweet taste of him. ]

They have seen a king broken and fled from his own palace. [ His voice comes heavy, his lips gently explore the sharp pale features of Loki's face. ] Now they will see him return and sit his throne with the winter in his arms. They will be as one, the summer and winter, they will be woven so tightly that none may part them, so that the snow falls to blanket the fertile fields and the sun warms the mountain peaks to falls of water.

[ Loki takes each kiss and crafts it anew, his tongue sliding past soft wind-chapped lips to taste again the warmth he had once nearly extinguished.

Master and mastered, mastered and master. The dark instincts within Loki's heart of ice sing to him, calling for the love he had once bound to himself beyond fate's cruelty, beyond even the safety of the summer-king and the babes that grew within his fertile body. He smothers them with sheer force of will, his teeth slotted together in a grimace.

And when Thor rises above him, the sunlight setting each strand of golden hair ablaze, Loki's hands cannot help but reach up to him, and to draw him again down for the comfort of skin against skin. The power of Thor's body comes with no insubstantial weight, and Loki feels like the spread of a butterfly pinned to the sheets below.

A thought oozes from the darkness, taking prominence with insidious strength. ]

And if I should forget myself even in your arms, and again take up my blade of malice? [ His hands shift, cupping Thor's face, stilling the flow of restless kisses. ] Will you have the strength to do what you must?

[ The door is left open; sunlight and warmth filter through the cracks in the crude logs which make this crude cottage, this little offering of gentle solace. The light warms his back, as his body warms Loki in turn better than any sheets or furs could do; and all around them is the pungent herbs and the scent of sweat and skin, drawn on every breath, a taste of life and desire and renewal. If Loki's words remind him of the shadows of their love, it is only that which Thor accepts and shoulders willingly as the burden of care. With life there is death, with joy there is grief, and with summer there is winter; they are vital to one another.

So Loki taught him. He leans down his head so that they rest brow to brow, reluctant to answer. He knows what he ought to say, yet this is the first truth and the last: that he cannot tear his life away from Loki's hands again, if the king of winter should want it. There is so little left to tear. ]

Once you bade me vow that I would never fall by your hand. I kept my oath; but please, my heart, do not ask me to keep it again.

[ His eyes open and he looks at Loki beneath him, held between Loki's hands. ]

Will you not vow yourself to me this time? That we will know and love one another, and that if the knowing should ever fade, better we fall together than be torn apart once again?

[ Once, an eternity past, Loki had believed himself capable of immolating thought and desire both. He had seen himself alone and forgotten, a creature whittled to naught but bone and blackened heart. He had reached within himself and found no song, no words worth speaking; he had thought himself meant only as fate's perpetrator of destruction.

Now, again, he'd thought to immolate hatred and malice instead, and thus find perpetuity for the verdant fields, for the children blossomed from his own seed. For Thor.

Because the world will suffer, if Thor falls. Loki has loved him and hated him beyond all others, and still one truth beats singularly in his heart: that no moment of birdsong, no wide open sky of blue, no wine or mead or sweet meltwater can compare to the warmth of Thor's embrace.

Loki's fingers spread, drifting over the curve of Thor's cheekbones, down the slope of his nose; his thumbs brush along the arch of eyebrows, down the strong jut of his chin. ]

Very well. [ he whispers, his voice a ruin of sound; his fingers are tracing the curl of Thor's mouth, restless, fervent. There is sorrow in him: old, quiet sorrow that has stripped the all other emotion from him. He lies as a corpse in Thor's arms, but still he smiles, still his eyes gleam wetly. ] Here I will remain, until winter and summer clasp hands and invoke oblivion's hospitality. I swear it upon the love I bear for you. [ His smile twists; his sorrow is like cold metal at his own throat. ] And so we shall damn all others to fall alongside what we have wrought.

Have no fear, beloved. [ His lips fall gentle upon the arch of Loki's cheekbone and at the corner of his eye, tasting the salt of tears; his kisses are like drops of rain. ] The world has changed, even as we have gone old; it is a harder place, and it will grow harder still, but mortal life will change itself as it must to persevere.

[ And if it should not? Then let all fade away to dust and shadow, as surely he and Loki must, for he cannot bear to live long in a world without the king of winter lain sweet and yielding in his arms.

Still Loki is a twisted creature, cold and quiet with sorrow, and Thor has known grief that weighs him as heavily as a stone. He has grown, he has changed himself to bear it, but the pain has worn him, printed lines and shadows upon his face, in his eyes. He will not go back to the palace but that Loki is there beside him, forever his consort; and this here will be their shelter, their solace, until strength is returned, until sorrow has faded and grown soft with the bittersweetness of memory. ]

Kiss me, my heart. [ he murmurs to him, as Loki's fingers trace his skin. ] Yield up your sweetness for me, as you did when we were young. I have not had your love upon me for so long, and I have ached so for you. We can know happiness again.

[ And why, indeed, should the king of winter wet his face with the sorrow of mortal men? Why shall his withered heart grow old and tender with grief fueled by thought of others outside of the meager reach of cold limb and body? He looked once into an eternity of solitude, and felt the reality cleave his mind from his body; has he not suffered injustice enough for a thousand thousand mortals, and all of their future blood and issue?

Yet still a shard of truth-glass aches in his soft underbelly, a shard of innocence and of fortitude, a shard of a child once sweet and chaste, and Loki cannot forget entire what it meant to care for more than Thor-king and Loki-king. He was born to rule, and ruling is no selfish endeavor.

Loki draws up Thor's great hand, and presses it to the bared knotted scar of the runes once carved into his chest. There is magic in this, too, for the touch sends a spiraling warmth into Loki's very bones. ] What, then, is happiness? [ asks the king of the frost, and he smiles through the tears that freeze upon his downturned face. His hair tumbling into his face, he kisses the narrowing of Thor's wrist, down the twist of his vein, into the bend of his elbow, greedy for the warmth of skin. ] Teach me, beloved. [ he murmurs, cradling Thor's arm to his chest. ] I feel it in the touch of your hands upon me, but still its meaning flees from my grasping mind. I am again your willing and eager pupil, as I was so many years ago.

[ Thor wants so badly to bury himself in the heart of these woods, to forgo kingship for the sake of his love, to take in selfishness what he has been denied for so long. The pain of it, the pain of a broken heart has been more than he knows how to bear. Yet Loki will not have him, that he is not a king crowned and wise and glorious, and in Thor's heart he knows it must be so, that the domain of summer is bound within him, and withers without him. Does he not know it? Did he not give his own children for mankind's need?

But here he will have solace and sweetness, for a time; here he and Loki will find one another out of the wind, out of the storm, until necessity recalls them to the heart of their joined kingdoms.

He caresses the ruins of his own name, then caresses Loki's beautiful, ruined face, the gaunt hollowness of his features, the tears cold upon his cheeks. He kisses them so that they melt to the warmth of his own lips. He rolls them over again, urges Loki down to his back in the warm embrace of sheets and furs, and reaches for fragrant oil. ]

Spread your legs, sweet one. [ he whispers, his voice a wrench of longing.

A quick slick of his cock is all he desires. His fingers press between Loki's legs and open him insistently, slipping within the beloved cleft of his body, the eager yielding. ]

[ Loki would name his summer-king a fool and worse, if he knew the meandering paths of thought newly traversed. They were made to be kings, and gods, but is it not the right of the divine to forge their own causeways, and to build their own cities of bone and gemstones and ash?

Oh, he will name himself a consort in the service of the summer-king's realms, but never will Loki rise from the shadows with only joy and succor upon his heart. The mortals will suffer for their part in this parody of love, until they too learn to fear the winter as well as they love the summer.

Thor has wrought for them a humble palace of solace and sweetness, indeed, for all its worth; yet Loki falls back against the furs and blinks away the ice of his tears without tearing himself away from the creature of hatred and loneliness that he has become. If Thor would love him, he cannot turn away from the past that has changed them both.

So Loki spreads his legs and tilts his face up for a kiss; so he smiles with terror and grief and malice braided into the fabric of his heart. ]

Enough. [ he whispers, drawing Thor to him with the strength of his arms and the vice of his spread thighs. ] I have waited long enough. Come.

[ He touches his brow to Loki's, closes his eyes, presses his lips to his cheek to taste the frozen salt of tears. ]

Can I give you no comfort first?

[ Is there to be no easing, no sweetness between them? No tenderness in the ruins of their hearts? No matter. If love is a ferocious, malicious thing, it is still love, and he is still swelled with it, body and heart. Thor cups Loki's thighs to spread them still wider for himself, his hips nudging between. He brings his slickened cock to the yielding hole, mounts and thrusts.

At once buried, at once so sweetly sheathed, his mouth covering Loki's to swallow his very breath, and Thor catches his legs at the crook of his elbows to hold them apart for him. His body slides, his hips hitch and thrust, the old sturdy frame of the bed creaking beneath the strength of the motion, the surge of his body against Loki's. Once he was young and his fucking was full of life and vigor and joy. Now he is an older creature, in the prime of strength and fertility, thrusting deep into the familiar hungry clasp of the winter's body, thrusting steadily and hard, brutal certainty in his hands.

Forever his, now. In love or in bitterness, bound to him, vowed to him, Loki will be his thrall now and forevermore, his lover and consort. ]

Edited 2012-12-25 02:46 (UTC)

[ What use has Loki for comfort?

No, better the painful truth driven deep into his mind and body. Better that Thor lay his hands upon him and leave bruises dark below skin. Better that their bodies forget the love of old and forge chain-links a thousand times stronger and a thousand times heavier.

Past the wandering judgment of all the mortals that would look, there beyond the mountains crowned with snow, there Loki will tuck their memories. The sky will heal over the rent they have left in its black flesh, and beyond the scarred surface will be joy enough for a lifetime. One day, when they need it most, it will be waiting for them.

So Loki holds Thor close, not as the starved creature grown cold in his own hatred, but as a body holds a body — for the animal need of warmth and of succor alone. What need has he for comfort, when he has the pain made steady by Thor's hands? ]

Later. [ says Loki, ice upon his breath, but they are words meant not to soothe himself, but for Thor instead. ] Afterwards.

Afterwards. [ he echoes, his voice caught breathless with longing and with pleasure and with pain, his cock thrust deep within Loki, slick and full, plunging, plundering steadily, taking and taking of all the sweetness his prince of winter could offer him. Never again his king, not here. That must never be; never again must Loki place his hands on him in mastery, or make Thor spread his golden thighs and yield himself for him, for surely he will forget and forgo his own kingship for all the sweetness of being Loki's thrall, and thus wither away to nothing once more.

So he will master instead, and bind Loki to him, and keep the winter ever beside the throne of summer, leashed to his loving hand, that if cold and pain and darkness should follow him that too will be Thor's to rein short.

His body lays heavily upon Loki's, his kisses as ruthless and plundering as his cock, as his strong arms holding Loki's thighs apart. How sweet this soft tight hole which clasps around him, sweeter than any other lover's Thor has ever known, for no matter who shared his bed there was always an emptiness, a hollowness in being with them, a rift within him where his beloved had been. Eventually he withdrew from the palace to this ascetic's hut and taken no lovers at all. Solitude was preferable, when he could not have the one he loved. ]

My heart. [ His lips brush Loki's softly, his hips drive relentlessly forth. He has never felt so potent, so full of power and life as when the prince of winter is spread beneath him. Perhaps there will be more children for them yet; perhaps this time he will sow his beloved instead, and see him ripe as summer fruit hanging heavy upon the vine. ]

A garden, perhaps. For the winter-king to tend.

[ says Loki, his voice a whisper. He laughs, soft and sharp, and yet there is sweetness in the curl of his mouth as he drinks from Thor's lips. ]

With blooms of ice and vines of black frost.

[ His breath catches when Thor bears him hence; he shifts like the ripple of light upon rushing water, fitting himself into Thor's hands. ]

There, a scant patch of land where I may pour my cruelty forth without consequence. [ And his legs hitch upwards, tightening about Thor's torso, dragging each thrust to its brutal apex. Once, he had shattered Thor apart upon his bed of white fur — today, he will allow Thor to do the same to him. He needs no master but that of Thor's warmth weighing inescapable upon him, no pleasure other than the thrust of Thor's body upon his own. He speaks breathlessly and without thought, his mind lost in his body's yearning. ]

The ugliest garden ever to grow. Will you allow it?

If you wish it so.

[ A groan, a straining, Thor piercing deep and ruthless, plunging within his sweet errant lover, the dark creature he once fled from, whose body between his hands is all he has ever wanted. Loki's white thighs are tight around his body, binding him, binding himself to Thor. He is ever to be his, now, to be shackled to him, the leash round his throat, the end in Thor's hands. To kneel at his feet and have pleasure from his hand, only from his hand. ]

But by your crafting, my love— [ Breathless, Thor takes his mouth with a brief hot plunge of his tongue, taking and taking of the cold sweet taste of him, and then speaking again: ] By your crafting I can only imagine it beautiful.

[ The twisting ice and vine, the black soil, the glitter of frost. Perhaps Loki will lead him through it hand in hand, and show him all his creation, and lay himself down upon the hard cold earth to be loved. ]

[ The apartment is blotted of ambient light, its shutters drawn, the TV's blind eye staring forward. His laptop's sickly blue glow casts Eames's face in strange demonic shadow — but his attention is turned away, caught on the scuff of sound beyond his door that the criminal life has taught him had taught him to never dismiss as happenstance.

His fingertip drags along the laptop's touchpad, opening the video feeding in from the cameras hidden outside.

Ah, thinks Eames, and his fingers rat-tat over the keys for a long staccato moment. The mind of a forgery artist involves an imagination beyond that of the common man: so Eames looks upon the monochrome spire of Arthur's spare form against the white-washed brick, and he almost believes that his next breath is thick with the scent of blood. ]

Might've knocked, you know. [ he says, when finally a flick of a latch has the door parting between them. His eyebrow is cocked, his expression quizzical — but the mockery is only just a part to play, as he'd been given the choice not open the door at all. ]

[ There's red on his knuckles. A hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks (two fingers curled around a square of loaded plastic), the other of Arthur's hands sports a cigarette. He exhales a thin stream of smoke and it rises in the air, coats the wall with a temporary haze of grey, warping the lines of brick and mortar.

(There's red on Arthur's knuckles. Who can tell if it's glass or snow that catches in the light; if it's wine or blood that paints the turn of his cuff, hidden by the cut of his sleeve.) ]

Fuck off, [ he says in greeting, but it's without heat, just a certain kind of flatness that Arthur always seems to carry with him. The butt of his cigarette gets thrown onto the ground, stomped out with the flat of his boot — he doesn't seem to be bothered that this is, in a way, sullying Eames' proverbial front door.

Arthur tips his chin. ] You gonna let me in?

[this note is attached to the doors to Spock's quarters]

Got the cure for that bad case of Vulcan you got. - Dr. McCoy

[and inside]

[In the end, it's all the people insisting he has the right to stay that drive him away, and he can't say why. He can't say why when Tony would drape an arm around his shoulders and show him around the labs, that Bruce could never stop squirming from some deeply-felt level of unease. It never went away, no matter how many dinners or drinks, no matter how long he sat and watched for the other guy to disappear from their eyes. And he did, for the most part, the most he can ask for.

When he still woke up with, sick with that creeping sense of wrongness, he just gave up. He just decided that maybe he doesn't really fit in anywhere anymore. Maybe he doesn't belong anywhere.

So he disappeared, or as best he could. He still looks over his shoulder now, dread in his stomach, in case he might see someone he recognizes, in case he might see a friendly face out of a sea of strangers. It's the sea of strangers he clings to. Surrounded by so much humanity -- rich humanity, too; all the smells and the sounds and the colors, so much that he aches with it, so much that it fills him up from the inside -- he can pretend like maybe he's human, too.

He likes the night because it's easier to hide; maybe he belongs to that, if nothing else. He takes the long way home, going slow, hands in his pockets, and his mind is empty. There's a peace here, between the clusters of chattering people, between the men on bikes and the clattering seats.

He stops short, body going still.

The familiar face he keeps waiting to sneak up on him from behind surprises him. It greets him head-on, or at least he thinks, until the light shifts and what he thought was Loki is now a woman, but still, he can't make his feet move, uncertainty stopping him.]

[Pretending to be human seems to be the goal of two in the crowd tonight -- likely more, flitting about under the cloak of anonymity, so many faces blending seamlessly into a cognitive blur, too much to process, too much to remember, safe.

That suspends itself, and time slows too, at the passing of familiar faces. Friends, family, acquaintances, encounters sought out and unexpected, bubbles in which for those within the world narrows down to the space occupied by known bodies, known entities, while the rest flows by outside.

Occasionally, strangers too catch the eye. Those who are different in one way or another, those who are astonishingly beautiful, those who are astonishingly ugly, those who know how to take the attention of others and toy with it, bend cognition into a tool of their own design and for the fulfilment of their own whims. Whatever else Loki is, she is most certainly the latter. Just another face in the crowd, but also its puppeteer, when it becomes opportune to be.

Time is alive like this, clinging to the stream and flow of people as they slip past her, jumping from body to body, slipping away with each rushed word and hurried step.

Occasionally, though, unexpectedly, it stops entirely. Moments hang like the halfway mark of a binary switch, ready, as soon as time creeps in, to change everything. Or nothing. One never does know.

In this case, who can say? Loki certainly never anticipated running across Bruce Banner here. She would have anticipated even less that, should they happen to pass on a crowded street on some balmy evening, both of them far from home, he might stop and stare as though some trick of the light had made her face somehow more familiar to him.

Nor would she have anticipated that, if such circumstance should happen to come to pass, she would slow her step too, rather than hurrying onwards. A poor bluff, a case of curiosity and what happens if it's placed in front of a bag of cats. Not unsalvageable. Then again, if chaos is her game, if disorder is what she's after, novelty, excitement, danger, destruction, whatever else remains that makes one's own futility seem just that slightest bit smaller, then who's to say she really wants to salvage it at all?]

English?

[No -- no, this definitely isn't Loki. It'd only been a half a second of recognition, enough to give him pause, and really, thinking he saw Loki's face in a crowd should be enough to stop him dead in his tracks, to put the fear of a god in him, appropriately. It wouldn't be entirely fear, of course, not really; he's still angry, bitter that Loki took advantage of Bruce for his own means. He still can't get over how paper-thin that whole plan was. What if SHIELD hadn't outsourced to Bruce, and what if Bruce hadn't come? He had to have been something that Loki settled on after the fact, after Clint maybe. Still, he was used like a pawn, which is enough to leave him, yeah, afraid of it happening again and angry that it happened at all.

But, not relevant here. This is some woman, some strange woman in a crowd in India who happens to speak English and in the right light, looks a little like someone who once turned Bruce inside out as a means to an end. He digs up a smile and nods.]

American. What about you?

[A shame the impression is so easily dispelled. Loki could bring it back so very easily if she wanted to. There are so many options:

Me? I come from storybooks.

I'm from nowhere nearly so close.

Asgardian.

Jǫtunn.

Nowhere.

Everywhere.

The stars.

Happenstance.

Don't you remember me?

Oh, the last, the last. Why else would he have stopped so abruptly? Loki knows. It's really quite obvious. She wonders how it happened, exactly, what trick of the light made her just that much more recognizable. How she might replicate it.

She wonders with an even more burning curiosity about what might happen if she did. Flirtation with that danger would certainly liven up her day.]

Nothing in particular. I've been lots of places.

[She tilts her head to one side, a delicate frown on her lips.]

You are familiar to me.

[Not entirely unlikely. After the fiasco in New York, all involved parties got at least a bit of screentime.]

Perhaps that's why you stopped as well. Am I wrong?

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

abraham lincoln {abraham lincoln: vampire hunter}

phil coulson ` mcu

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63!sherlock holmes | bbc sherlock au

irene adler | bbc sherlock

Joan Watson | Elementary

TJ Hammond » Political Animals

That username... I can't...

I wish I could take credit. A friend suggested it for him.

Alright. It was so nice since grindr is a gay site for cruising

Yeah, I looked it up. My google-fu's not half bad.

OK.

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Bruce Banner :: MCU

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