The Avenger's soulmate

Chapter thirteen: Can't catch a break.

Lydia was leaving. On a business trip, that's what she said once they trundled back home, "My boss is still ill so wants another pair of hands," she'd said, smiling sadly, "you'll have to keep an eye on the house for me."
"Alright," Ophelia pouted. Her friend giggled. The air had softened between them, the gallery incident a distant memory in the blonde's mind.
The distance between them had been closed, Lydia's arms entwined with hers as she cooed, "Come on~"
"I don't like living alone,"
"You'll be alright."
"Yeah..."
"Don't be sad, it'll be okay, I'll be gone for a week, we can have a party before we go—it's gonna be fun!"

So that's what they did or well, were doing. Pop music clambered over chatter, and bodies danced about the floor below. Ophelia stared down, her attention fixed on the various spry forms. She'd been on that balcony overlooking the crowd for a few minutes, nursing her drink.
Lydia was on the dance floor, slender arms bent towards the sky, a man glued to her. She looked happy, grinning slyly as she pressed herself into him. She hadn't found her soulmates yet, but she seemed to enjoy that notion, the freedom it gave her. The 27-year-old could do anything she wanted, or anyone. Her friend's freedom was never so glorious as that, once Ophelia was free from those cells, she was locked in a fresh one: A dark, bone cell, where she was stuck, reliving all of it. Her mind had trapped her, unable to accept that it was free to think. Think up a narrative, thoughts, and all. So, she'd thought of the only thing she remembered; That place. The walls of grey, floors imprinted with battered handprints, soldiers dragging whining victims to their surgeries.
Opehlai hated how she'd complied, sometimes locked in those cells or the one dragging people out of them. It was against her will. She'd fought and fought for years, always screaming, biting, attempting to break free. But it was only fifteen years. Then they'd broken her. Ophelia remembered last nights nightmare and shuddered.

She can't think about that now. It's a nice evening, her friend is having fun, and so should she. Ophelia relaxed into her chair and studied the buzzing bodies around her. Would one of them dance with her? As that thought flickered so did a burning sense of jealousy. Not her own. It wavered beneath her scar, in place of where Loki's mark would be. He was ticked off.
Rarely does a soulmate get their lover's thoughts, a trickle within their ocean of a mind, sometimes it would get lost. That connection, between her and the god, had been active. Unfortunately, that thought had just been the only one to pop up. And his annoyance reflected that. It was amusing, to her anyway.

But she turned back to her beverage, the idea of dancing with people now rather tainted. Slowly, she tilted and raised her glass, watching the dark liquid swirl in a subtle whirlpool. They'd been here for two hours, three?
For the first hour and a half, she'd participated in her friend's fun, drinking and dancing, except without the drunken stupor her friend had succumbed to. But her feet had got tired, and she'd begun to regret wearing a dress with such tight sleeves, so, she'd returned to their table. After that, her favorite pastime was to drink every time a hot individual strutted by. Then jealousy had flared on her wrist and she'd feel the need to stop. She still needed to talk to him. Loki. Ask him why he did it. That was the one detail she desired to know. But where the hell does he live?
Where does Loki of Asgard reside? In a palace? Ophelia had entertained that thought, imagining a towering entrance of marble, adorned pillars, and golden floors; Portraits or statues of predecessors lining the walls like banners, a celebration of kingship. Then came the realization that she was on Earth. Gods don't come from Earth.
If she sees him again she'll have to ask—

Someone cut her off. Someone sat down next to her.
And to her grim knowledge, it was not Lydia.

"Hey," a wide grin plastered his sickly complexion, silver teeth, stacked along his gums, gleamed under the club lights. But what was the most obvious aspect of him was the pungent odour, laced with a scent of beer. It made her wince, neck hairs bristle, the fight or flight response spike. It was peculiar. Her nose scrunched to pinpoint it as she looked at this unwelcome stranger.
"Can I help you?" Ophelia asked, angling her body away from the man at her side. The stranger attempted to do what he'd think was an attractive smirk. It only creeped her out.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
It was hard to concentrate on him. Why? His scent drilled into her sinus's. Like a cleaned bathroom, bleach down the toilet, in the drains, in the sinks. Disinfectants. He smelt like disinfectant. And she was being dipped in last night's dream again. Panic itched at her skin: Eyes scanned the crowd, where was Lydia? She'd just been looking at her? The blonde was not amongst the crowd. The man she'd been stuck to was gone as well.
"No, I don't want a drink, thank you," she said, somewhat abrasively.
"Why not, you look thirsty–"
Ophelia raised her glass, gesturing to him her point. He paused and leaned back, then slowly scooted closer. The smell got worse.
"You single?
"No." she had no idea why she said it. In some ways it was true. She had soulmates; A soulmate whom she'd accepted. Why couldn't Lydia be here? Would she come back?
"I don't see a soulmate anywhere."
"Oh, he's here."
"Come on, don't lie, why would your soulmate leave a sexy girl like you on your own?"
Sexy girl? Ick. Ophelia shuffled off her chair, stood, and with a puff of her chest said, "I'm not interested, sorry," she smiled fakely, "I'll be going."
She stepped. He stood. Her path now blocked, she swiveled on her heels and marched towards the stairs. The stairs lead to a "VIP" area. It was usually rather empty. So she fled towards the stairs. The man's response was staggered. He scoffed in disbelief, barked out in annoyance then moved after her. "Excuse you," he hissed, "don't be so rude–"
Ophelia already had her foot on the step, then was halfway up. The man had gained speed, charging after her, his face swelling with rage.
"Come on, pretty girl, you'd have a great night with me–"
"Asshole!" she replied, now on the landing. A few faces turned to her. It was a quiet setup, off to the right, and people were dancing. She moved to go toward the bartender but a hand seized her wrist, spinning her around, "Listen you slut, I only flirted out of pity but now you've pissed me off–"
"Pity? I didn't realize that's what pity looked like if you were willing to chase me."
He yanked her closer, his grip on her wrist getting painful, "How dare you talk to a man like that, huh?" he spat.
Ophelia remained silent. Tilting her head up at him, she cocked her hand back and hit him. It wasn't a slap, no, it was a punch, connecting with his jaw. He stumbled, his grip on her wrist loosened. "And now I've just struck a man, did the earth stop turning?"

She turned, almost colliding with someone's chest as a circular light flashed in her eyes. Looking up, her gaze softened. The person she nearly barreled into, smiled, a smile more genuine than the ones plastered across his magazine covers and posters.
That's when her words came up short, as she recognised him. Ophelia stood like a gormless doll. Music battered her ears. His eyes lush brown bled into hers, she barely even heard his words as he spoke,
"Hiya Soulmate,"