The Avenger's soulmate

Twenty-two: a new home, an old longing.

Hey guys, sorry for the late chapter, I really haven't been feeling this story, hit writers block I guess. But anyway, I hope it's alright!
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Buying a house, it's easy, right?

Had the head-banging against a wall damaged her brain?

It wasn't easy. It'd been days, weeks, of torture.

Lydia had returned, and they'd danced together in a silent tango. Both guilty of something and yet too stubborn to submit to the other. So they dodged and spun, never pausing to speak. Ophelia tried, opened her mouth to huff out the one word that could seal their open wound, dismiss the tension, solve it: this. And yet no words had come out. She just stared blankly at the woman, her attempt failed.

And yet there was no similar nor excessive effort from her friend. The blonde only dove into her work, busied herself with forgotten chores she'd never thought to do, disappearing into a buzzing void.

Ophelia had, with her limited and passive presence within her old home, bought a house.

That was the real challenge.

Money wasn't it. Certainly, the odd estate agent wasn't, despite his breath practically begging for a mint and his disturbingly low-cut shirts, he knew the best place. He was not the problem. Pickiness was.
Pickiness which was not her characteristic. Because despite her lack of standards when it came to a living space, the residents of her mind, had high ones.

The first house: Too blocky.
The second: smelt weird.
Third, Fourth. Fifth—
It lasted weeks until she came across a small house, older in its architecture, 1920s maybe, and it was lovely.

Terraced house, large arching windows, detached from the carpets of pedestrians flooding the streets. It was quiet, secluded from the business of the centre and with each visit, in rain and sun, she felt a fondness for it. The mahogany wood floors, the creaky stairs and the apple of her eye:

A single stained glass window. A silhouetted form was visible through the green backdrop, her form swathed in a black cloth. Within her hand clutched a curved blade, short in a subtle scythe arc before it bent in a crooked stroke. It was beautiful. The dark eyes, flickering with evil enchantment and a nose cast into the black by hollow bone, skinned below that gaze. It was how Ophelia had always viewed death.
A mistress in dark shrouds. A dazzling entity with a demonic countenance.

It made her smile as she stared up at it now.
Somewhere in her heart, she felt like they'd encountered before, her and the figure of stained glass.
But through the haze of history, she could not pluck that identity, that woman, that scene of mystery.

That was what got her to sign the papers, the money yanked from her account. That was what made her buy the house.

Following it up took time.

Lydia finally spoke at their last dinner together, the word "sorry" slipping into a natural demand. She was asking Ophelia to apologize and when she did, the ex-assassin could only shrug, mirror a picture of boredom. She'd reclined in her chair with a chunk of lamb hovering over her lip. Sighing softly she'd said,
"I'm moving out."

Silence had followed.
Then rage, spilt from Lydia's lips and then her's. Forks clattered plates. Voices clambered over the peace, attempting to drown out each other. But Ophelia didn't want to lose and neither did her demons.

Black wisps oozing from the flesh. Fingertips blackening and conscience clouding. Lydia soon fell silent as Ophelia's rage came out roaring.
Venom gushed from her lips whilst she screamed, stinging her friends' moral wounds with salt. It took some minutes before Ophelia clawed the shadows back into the wrinkles of her brain. And it took an hour for Lydia to stop crying.
By the time her faucet ran dry, the blonde's roommate had left.

The words "I am sorry" were uttered.

Ophelia spoke it softly, patting her friend's hair before they parted for the last time.

Lydia spoke it harshly, a facade of anger breaking over guilt and sorrow. The truth came out. It gushed in ragged breaths and salt tears until the door closed with each friend on opposite sides.

They left each other as friends. An illusion encased in fond memories and marked histories.
They would stay friends until one would call the other, and reveal the parody, highlighting their falsified unity.

Weeks had passed. The duo were texting but Ophelia hadn't heard her friend's voice in a while, it made her lonely.

Her only company were the voices in her head beside the stained glass goddess in her kitchen.

Time ticked on and her mind began to trail back to her soulmates. To Tony. To Loki. To them all.

Maybe she could call the son of Odin, and embrace a living soul for a moment before retreating into this home of solitude. It was an idea that grew a home in her heart, began to tug at heartstrings.

One call right?
One.
Just Loki. No one else.

The one she accepted and the one he lost. Together like in the gallery, talking, basking in each other's warmth like puppies to a crackling flame. Ophelia hated the cold of her shadows, and her head wound had healed into nothing but a rare headache.

She had a new home; with it, the place needed a host. But who were it's guests?

Ophelia settled into her newest armchair, tipped her head back into the plush cushion and called through foggy thoughts and shadowy chatter, to a mind of quiet.

"Loki, can you hear me?"
She felt his heart leap, his eyes closing.
He hesitated, "Ophelia?"

The woman smiled, setting her gaze to the floor and had begun to speak when the door crashed open.

—

Their connection still remained and he heard them.

Soft words, stuttering from her lip. It shook with fear that radiated through to Loki, forcing his limbs to move. The connection cut. The god felt nothing from her—He rushed into the hallway, calling out to his soulmates with Ophelia's last words ringing in his head:

"No, please, not again."