california 02 // loki's romanoff prelude

thirty // the afterparty

She saw him sometimes. Through a window. Out of the corner of her eye. Laughing. Smoking. Dancing. Flicking that dark hair out of his eyes. When she turned towards him, he was never there. Sometimes, she wondered if he was ever there in the first place.

When Loki disappeared from the jail without explanation, Natasha had only thought it a matter of time before he came back. In the newspapers, or on the TV perhaps. Arsonist burns down gas station. Or something more dramatic, like Arsonist robs bank and burns it down, stole five thousand dollars. Something, at least. At least a side article, if he wasn't front page.

But no. He vanished so completely that nobody, not even Fury, could fathom where he had went.

He wasn't there when she woke up in the morning, he wasn't there when she looked over at the passenger seat when she was driving, he wasn't there to kiss her when she woke from nightmares in the middle of the night. He wasn't there when the new Star Wars movie came out. He wasn't there to cheer on Obi Wan and cry when Palpatine took Anakin. He wasn't there to complain about the queues to the cinema, and he wasn't there to crack hopeless Star Wars jokes every hour of the day. He was gone so suddenly and it made a hole in her chest.

Some days were easier than others. Natasha settled into S.H.I.E.L.D well, considering they all used to hate her. Most of the workers were actually nice. They invited Natasha out to coffee with them once or twice, and she got to know them - Maria, Phil, Melinda. Others. They were all kind and she liked them. And then there was Clint.

Clint was the best. He went to gym and on runs with her, and he came round to her apartment sometimes afterwards. She made them microwave meals and they watched TV. Not movies. It hurt to watch movies, because she'd watched most of them with Loki. They watched other things - soap operas, the news, documentaries. Clint never failed to make her laugh, and she found herself liking him more and more each day.

Not in that way. And even if it was in that way, it wouldn't change anything, because kissing anyone but Loki still felt wrong. Plus, Clint was better as a friend.

It was still hard. There were still nights when all she dreamed of was Loki, when she lay awake staring at the ceiling wondering where he was, what he was doing. She saw him alone, in dark alleys, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and hating the world. She saw him on underground stations, catching trains and getting off them, wandering the subways all by himself, never reaching a destination. Deep inside, she knew this was wrong, that he'd probably already returned to his home on Asgard, returned home to his family.

The thoughts still plagued her. Did he miss her? Did he even think of her? What was he doing at that exact moment?

It was hard, but most breakups were. And Natasha's life only got better as the days went on. She saved up, bought herself a Nissan. Worked on the weekdays, went on missions sometimes with Clint, chilled at the weekends.

Eat. Sleep. Work out. Repeat. It felt good to live normal, and it felt good to be good.

There were never days when she didn't think of Loki at all, but the days when she cried over him and wished he was with her were getting less and less common.

For Christmas, she went to a ski resort in Italy with Clint and a few others at work. It was awesome, and the best part was when she and Maria beat Clint and Fury in a race down the slopes. Or Christmas morning, when Clint presented her with a set of black combat boots, which were seriously cool and way nicer than anything she'd previously owned. She'd never received a Christmas present before.

He saw her everywhere. Sometimes, he'd swear she was walking right past him in the corridors, but it was never her, always just some lady in waiting or handmaid of the castle. Why would it be her? As if it would be her.

Loki tried to get his life back. Gather the pieces, spread them out like lost treasures. Tried running again. That took time. His lungs were so fucked by the cigarettes, his muscles so wasted by lack of use, that it was an effort to run even a single kilometre.

His magic was worse. It was so weak that he could barely handle spells he had mastered when he was an infant, and with the lack of it humming through his bones, he felt more tired than ever. But his mother told him it would return, and it did. Little by little. It got stronger, and so did he.

He quit smoking. That was even harder. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do.

His punishment ended. To celebrate, Thor invited him out to the town with Sif, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun. Loki said yes only because he was getting sick of staring at the walls in his room, and to be honest, it wasn't even that bad of a trip. Sif bumped into him on purpose when they went into the bar and spilt her drink on him, but apart from that, it was all right. Nice, even. Loki found that he could talk to the Warriors Three without bumbling his words or getting laughed at.

And then there was Heimdall. On the first day after Loki's punishment ended, he went down to the observatory, and Heimdall was there, as always.

'Good morning,' said Loki.

'Good morning,' replied Heimdall.

They did nothing but stare into the sky for a long while. It was a cloudless day, but cold; the first day of winter. The sky was the colour of LA swimming pools.

'I have something for you,' Heimdall said, at last. 'I was meaning for it to be a Solstice gift.'

Loki frowned. Heimdall had never once gotten Loki a Solstice gift. Heimdall never got anyone any gifts.
Heimdall returned moments later, a bag in his arms. And not just any bag, either - it was Loki's bag. The one he'd brought down to Midgard, the one that had been with him for almost three months, the one he'd presumed missing or damaged.

'Here,' said Heimdall.

Loki couldn't speak. The soft leather felt like knives under his fingertips.

As he turned through the old treasures, his heart seemed to fall a little. Here was the pin badge from Salt Lake, and a postcard from Idaho Falls. Here was his book, Wuthering Heights, a daisy from Rock Springs still pressed between the pages. A sticker book from Jefferson City. A packet of strawberry-flavoured cigarettes from Detroit.

At last, he reached the Polaroids. They were like hits to his chest by a bag of bricks. There was the one of them at San Francisco - God. He looked so small. So much younger. And her - she was exactly the way he remembered her.

And here were the wild chain of printed photos from a photo-booth in New Mexico of the two of them - pulling silly faces; posing like they were from an action movie; laughing; kissing. God. As he looked at himself in those photos, he tried to peer into his own eyes. Wondering. Do you know how much you'll miss this? What are you thinking? Do you have any idea how much you'll miss her?

Heimdall was there, but what hadn't Heimdall already seen? Loki wiped his eyes; he put everything back into his bag.

'Thank you,' he said.

Heimdall merely tilted his head in response.

It was the end of 2002.

The sky was the colour of winter, and her name was a tattoo in the beat of his heart.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes; he tried to let her go. Like releasing a bird from a cage, he tried to forget her: You'll never see her again, Loki.

He was wrong, of course.

They would meet again in ten years, and they both would remember each other and remember what they once were to each other, even though they would not fight on the same side when the day came.

Just ten years.

Ten years ...

But now, he was here. The sky was blue. The air tasted sweet, and it was the end of 2002.