A/N: Whoops I've started posting a story again. Just as a heads up, updates on this aren't going to be nearly as fast as they were for Turn - that was all down to the fact that during the lead up to my operation work was going very easy on me and barely giving me anything to do. Now I'm back and they're like 'hey Laura, we missed you, by the way, here's a ton of stuff for you to do'. Which is good, but it does mean that I'm spending a lot more time working. Also, still healing, so spending an awful lot of time sleeping. But anyway, here's the start of a new magical journey. There are spoilers for TDW in this story, so if you haven't seen it, back away now or prepare to be spoiled. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this, you can keep updated on my breakdowns over this story on my tumblr, link for which is on my profile.

The Interloper

by Flaignhan

She's getting too old for this shit.

The guards she had anticipated, the alarms too. She'd been given a briefing about the motion sensors, the heat sensors and the lockdown process. The one thing they'd neglected to mention, however, had been the dogs. She can hear their paws pounding on the earth behind her as her heart hammers in her chest. If she makes it out of here in one piece, she'll serve Fury his ass on a god damn plate. Watch out for the heat sensors, but we'll neglect to mention the rabid killer monsters that'll tear you to shreds if they catch you.

She crashes into the chain link fence and scales it quickly, ignoring the sharp slice of the barbed wire coiled at the top. She nearly loses her balance as the dogs catch up with her, jumping up at the fence, barking and growling, their claws catching on the wire and shaking the entire panel. Carefully, she manoeuvres herself over the top, grimacing when the barbs dig into her, but don't pierce her suit. She jumps down to the ground, then springs up again, sprinting across the concrete, weaving her way out of the path of the spotlights searching for her. She keeps surging forward, her hands warm and wet with blood, her thighs aching as she pushes on, her breath ragged as she makes it back to the road. She whips her head around, searching for the car, but she can't see it in the darkness.

She forces herself onwards, her feet aching as they slap the concrete, and, just when she thinks this hundred metre dash is going to turn into a marathon all the way back to headquarters, a set of headlights flare in front of her, blinding her and causing coloured spots to float in front of her eyes. She shields herself from the beams and dashes forward, hauling open the door and throwing herself into the passenger seat.

"All good?" Coulson asks.

Natasha looks down at her bloodied hands as they pull away and smiles wryly. "I got the files, if that's what you mean."

Coulson smirks as they turn onto a busier main road and get held at a set of traffic lights. "You've recovered from worse." He reaches behind the passenger seat and pulls a first aid kit from the pocket on the back, and tosses it to Natasha, She unzips it quickly and tries to tear open one of the antiseptic wipes, but she can't get a good grip for all the blood on her hands. Losing patience, she rips the corner of the sachet off with her teeth and pulls out the thin white cloth, wiping off the excess blood and staining it pink immediately. The gash across the palm of her hand is deep, every time she wipes the blood away, a fresh collection pools, and so she pulls out a bandage and wraps it as tightly as she can around her hand, tucking the end away before adjusting herself in her seat and clipping her belt into place.

"Fury wants to see you before you go home," Coulson tells her. "And you'll probably need stitches for that." He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to glance down at Natasha's hand. She grimaces, and cradles it against her chest, hoping that the blood will soon clot and she won't have to spend too long being fussed over by the medics. Really, she just wants to get home and get some rest, ready for a normal day tomorrow.

Coulson pulls up outside headquarters, but doesn't turn off the engine. Natasha's eyebrows twitch into a frown.

"You're not coming in?"

Coulson shakes his head.

"Right," Natasha says. "See you tomorrow I guess."

"See ya," he replies, and Natasha gets out of the car, pushing the door shut behind her, and Coulson drives off, leaving her standing alone. She sighs and heads into the lobby, the security guard giving her a nod of greeting as she passes. She pauses at the retina scanner and after a quick bleep, she is granted access to the lifts. Fury's office is on the fifty-third floor, and it's a long ride up. Blood has started to soak through her bandage, only a little, but she's sure that as soon as he's finished debriefing her, she'll be spending a good hour in the sick bay, undergoing a full post-assignment medical when all she really needs is a needle and thread, or even some superglue. Like Coulson says, she's recovered from far worse.

She knocks on the door and enters, knowing full well he'll have stayed late for her this evening. He's nursing a cup of coffee, his feet up on the desk, his face tired. Natasha reaches into her pocket with her slightly less shredded hand and pulls out a USB stick, tossing it onto the table. Fury smiles and gestures for her to take a seat.

"And here was me thinking I'd be here until midnight," he says, glancing up at the clock above the door. Natasha twists in her seat to find that it's only just gone ten thirty, and turns back to Fury, a small smirk on her lips.

"Maybe if you'd sent Barton, you would be," she says coyly.

Fury allows himself a small chuckle, then drags his feet off of the desk, his boots landing on the floor with a loud thud. "Coffee?" he asks.

Natasha shakes her head. "I wanna sleep tonight."

Fury narrows his eye, his gaze focused on Natasha's bandaged hand and the small patch of pink that has seeped through the gauze. He raises an eyebrow, and Natasha knows she has to confess.

"Barbed wire."

"You coulda been more careful. Not like you to get cut up on something so silly."

"Yeah," Natasha says airily, leaning back in her seat. "Maybe I would've been more careful had I not had a pack of dogs chasing me across the god damn complex."

"Dogs?"

"Yes."

Fury nods in approval. "Old school. You gotta respect that."

Natasha gives him a withering look and he wipes the smile from his face.

"Oh go and see the medics," he says with a wave of his hand. "I wanna go home, we can check this shit out tomorrow." He picks up the USB and stows it in the inside pocket of his leather coat, the movement revealing the gleaming butt of his pistol, holstered by his ribs. Natasha breathes a small sigh of relief, glad to not be trawling through CCTV footage until the early hours, and she stands up, turning for the door.

"Goodnight, sir," she says, biting into her inside lower lip as she forgets about the shallower cuts on her left hand and turns the door handle, the metal scraping against her tender flesh. She swallows down the grimace that threatens to pull at her face, and Fury gives her a casual salute of dismissal.

The corridor outside Fury's office is empty, most of the staff having disappeared for the night. The medics, she knows, have been awaiting her return, and hopefully they're just as anxious as she is to get home. She enters the lift and punches the button for the tenth floor, her stomach jolting as the lift lurches into descent. When it shudders to a halt, seconds later, the doors slide open and two uniformed medics are already there. They ambush her as soon as she steps outside and Natasha skips around the wheelchair they've brought along and strides determinedly towards the treatment room, the two of them at her heels, throwing questions at her in rushed, breathy voices. She tries to keep her expression plain, but these two are so obviously new and so obviously nervous of her that her already paper-thin patience is being stretched to breaking point.

"Any head injuries? You know even the smallest knock needs - "

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"No."

They enter the treatment room and Natasha slides onto the bed and starts to unravel the bandage from her hand. The girl rushes around collecting various pieces of equipment in order to tend to it, while the guy wraps a blood pressure armband around her upper arm. He presses a few buttons and it inflates, squeezing Natasha's muscles unpleasantly, but then there are a series of bleeps followed by a quick deflation.

"Blood pressure's a little low…"

"Can we maybe worry about that after you've fixed my hand?" Natasha asks pointedly. Blood pressure it the least of her worries, and she's constantly being told by every medic in this damn building that it's too low, but it's just the way she's built. They've tried to prescribe her pills, but gave up when they realised she was dropping them into the nearest bin the first chance she got. She knows her own body better than anyone, and knows that an increase in blood pressure would fuck her up and leave her off kilter. So no, no tablets.

The girl appears in front of her with a tray which she sets on the bed, then begins to clean Natasha's wound. Eventually, after more fuss, a pulse count, oxygen level check and her temperature being taken, the first stitch is sewn, the skin smarting as it's pulled back together.

"Painkillers?" the guy asks, holding up a syringe filled with clear fluid.

Natasha shakes her head.

"Sure?"

"Sure," she says through gritted teeth.

He puts the needle down then takes her left hand, cleaning it carefully, Natasha holding in a hiss of discomfort. He fumbles as he peels the dressing away from its wrapper, but it's not too long before he's secured it, patting it down gently. The girl reaches across to the tray for a pair of scissors and snips the thread attached to Natasha's hand. As she moves away, the guy moves in, and it's like they're a double act, working in tandem and knowing exactly where the other will be moving next. He wraps a new bandage around Natasha's right hand until she can't make a fist at all. She sighs, reminding herself that she can simply take it off in the morning, but now is the time to suck it up and deal with it.

"Any other accidents?" the girl asks brightly. "Broken bones? Twisted ankles?"

"No, it was just the hands," Natasha says as patiently as she can.

"And that blood pressure…" the guy murmurs. "I'm gonna check it again, maybe it was a naff reading."

She bites her tongue, knowing deep down that they are simply doing their job, but the newbie medical staff are always so much easier to tolerate when they're doing their job on someone else. Natasha grits her teeth as the armband is wrapped around her again, and grips the edge of the bed as it swells, constricting her flesh. She holds her breath, and then, the bleep comes, the armband releasing its air as Natasha exhales a sigh.

"That's a bit higher," he says, frowning at the monitor. "Still a little bit low but it's higher."

"Amazing," Natasha says, sliding off the bed and onto her feet. "Thanks."

"Oh you can't go yet!" the girl exclaims, rushing to block the door. "We have to do a full post-assignment medical, just in case!"

"And then we have to make a report - "

"Which has to be approved by Director Fury - "

"And then we can release you."

Natasha looks between the two of them, eyebrow raised. "Do you ever finish your own sentences?"

"Sometimes," the girl says nervously, shrinking back against the door.

"Look," Natasha says. "Director Fury has gone home. I suggest you do the same. I am fine." She gives them each a cold stare for good measure, and they seem to wither before her very eyes. She holds in a smile, while the guy tugs nervously on his earlobe.

"You know," he says to the girl. "I think she's probably fine."

"Yes," she agrees, straightening her jumper and moving out of Natasha's way. "I think you're probably right. Thank you very much for your time, Agent Romanov." She opens the door for her and Natasha raises a bandaged hand in farewell before departing and heading as quickly as she can towards the exit.

Home is a relief. She dumps her bag on the floor as soon as she closes the door and wanders down the hallway, contemplating how the hell she's supposed to get the snug tailored sleeves of her jumpsuit over her chunky bandages, but just as she's making the case to herself for taking them off now instead of in the morning, she stops dead in her tracks, staring at the sofa, her jaw hanging low.

"Good evening."

He's sprawled on the sofa, frowning up at a magazine, and it's with some annoyance that she notices he's got his feet propped up on the arm without having first removed his shoes. It's a bizarre first thought, she'll admit, because really, she should be drawing her gun, or calling for back up or anything else that isn't just staring dumbly at him. She's far too tired for this shit however, and he's as of yet to make any fast movements.

"You're supposed to be dead."

He lets the magazine flop down onto his stomach and turns his head in order to send a withering look in her direction.

"Hello to you too," he says scathingly, pushing himself up and tossing the magazine onto the coffee table.

He looks so different to when she last saw him. He's wearing normal clothes, jeans and a faded t-shirt, presumably to blend in, but there's more to it than that. Considering he's supposed to be dead, he's looking a lot healthier than when she last saw him alive. Then he was sweaty, his movements shaky and unsteady, his skin colourless, bar the dark circles under his eyes. Now however, he looks far less damaged, and it's as though the clock has been wound back on him, peeling off the years to reveal a younger, healthier Loki.

He meets her gaze and holds it for a moment before his lips twist into a smirk.

"I'm not here to kill you, by the way."

Oh.

"No?"

"That would be rude," he says. "And counter productive."

"Counter productive…" Natasha breathes, her eyes glancing around the room for that spear of his. She has the horrible feeling that she's about to be compromised.

"What happened to your hands?" he asks. The question throws Natasha and she narrows her eyes, trying to work out if he's pinpointing her weaknesses already.

"I cut them. On an assignment," she says slowly, still hovering by the door, her skin prickling uncomfortably. She's itching to get out of her suit, but the demigod on her sofa has waylaid those plans a little. She doesn't know whether she ought to just leave and alert the others as soon as she can, but something about his demeanour keeps her rooted to the spot. He seems far more stable, relaxed, and even…well, maybe not happy, but certainly not unhappy.

"That was careless of you. Are you going to sit down?"

Natasha blinks, and without her brain giving any instruction, her body complies, and moments later she's curled up on the opposite end of the sofa to him, scowling as he runs his eyes over her.

"Does Thor know you're alive?"

"No," he says firmly. "And he's not going to know."

"But - " She remembers Thor swallowing a lump in his throat, his voice croaky as he told her the news when he came to headquarters with Jane. She remembers the overbright glaze on his eyes, the way his jaw muscles had twitched as he clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, and the way he had looked away when Natasha had offered her condolences. "He's still mourning you."

"Yes…" Loki says dispassionately. "I forgot, the five stages of grief - denial, anger, sticking your tongue down your girlfriend's throat…"

Natasha's lips twitch into an almost smile. "He's trying to find distraction, it's perfectly normal. And just because you're dead it doesn't mean he automatically should stop loving her."

Loki huffs, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin.

"So what are you doing here?" Natasha asks gently. She figures that this time, it's best to be upfront. No games, no hidden agendas, just honesty. She thinks she might actually get a half decent answer from him this time. He's difficult to judge though, he's so different to what she was used to before.

"I've got nowhere to go," he says, his gaze focused on his feet. "My father thinks I'm dead, so Asgard is out of the question. None of the other realms are particularly appealing…"

"Except this one?" Natasha asks.

"This one's busy. And modern."

"And Thor's here…"

He stiffens at this. "If I go back to Asgard, my father might revoke my pardon," he says sulkily. "So until he dies, I need to keep my head down."

"And your first step in keeping your head down was to break into a SHIELD agent's apartment?"

"You haven't alerted the others," Loki says. "And I didn't know where else I could go."

Natasha sighs and looks up towards the ceiling, her head resting on the back of the sofa as she considers her situation. According to Thor, Loki died saving him. Which, as deaths go, is fairly honourable. One might even call it a pretty big leap towards redemption. However, Loki is quite obviously not dead, so clearly didn't make the sacrifice that Thor and the rest of the nine realms believe he made. And yet he still saved Thor.

"Did you know you were going to survive?" Natasha asks.

Loki looks up, slightly taken aback by her question. "Fifty fifty," he says. "It wasn't without its risks, but going back to that cell wasn't part of any of my plans."

So where does that leave things now? He couldn't be sure he'd survive when he saved his brother, but his main motivation was ensuring he didn't land himself back in a dungeon, which, to Natasha, sounds like a fair enough use of logic. But all the same, how can she just let him stay? How could she even force him to go? She could get in touch with Thor, but by the time he arrives to envelope Loki in the bear hug to end all bear hugs and shed a few manly tears over his not-dead brother, Loki will be long gone. Not only will he be gone, but he'll also be angry with her for doing the one thing he doesn't want her to.

"Have you got any food?" he asks softly. "I'm quite hungry."

Natasha blinks, and suddenly feels like she's been lumbered with a babysitting job. For all his ability to blend in on the streets, Natasha wonders whether Loki really understands how things work on Earth. She doesn't imagine he ever really had to lift a finger as a prince, doubts he's ever been to a store to buy Doritos at four in the morning to silence an unexplainable craving. She sighs and pulls her phone from her pocket, searching through her contacts list until she finds the number for the pizza joint that stays open until two. The phone rings half a dozen times before it's picked up, the person on the end introducing themselves at a hundred miles an hour.

"Yeah, can I get a large Texas barbecue?" Her own stomach rumbles at the thought of food. "And some chicken strips…and wedges…"

Loki watches her curiously, and she thinks that this might be his first foray into the world of fast food. It's certainly not Natasha's first, her late nights at SHIELD ensuring that by the time she gets home, the oven is off limits, because the front door is closer than the kitchen.

She finishes placing the order and ends the call. "It should be here in a half hour," she tells Loki. "I'm gonna get changed. Don't…kill anyone."

"What is it?" he asks, his nose scrunching in distaste when Natasha flips open the lid. She sighs happily as the steam escapes, the scent of the flavours lingering in the air. It's just what she needs after her run in with the dogs.

"Pizza," she tells him, leaning forward to take a slice. "Just try it, you'll like it."

"But what is…pizza?" he asks, eyeing it with distrust.

"Pizza's good."

He still shows some hesitation, even when Natasha takes a large bite out of her own slice, chewing it happily before she swallows it.

"It's a dough base, this one has barbecue sauce, there's melted cheese, chicken, peppers, onions, it's all good. All really good. Just eat it."

"I feel like a peasant," he says sulkily as he awkwardly lifts a slice from the box. "Eating like this. Out of a box."

"Yeah, well last I heard you had nowhere to go, so you are a peasant."

Her words only cause Loki's scowl to deepen, and he glares at his pizza slice for a moment before he gingerly takes a bite, chews it cautiously, and then apparently decides that it's not going to kill him. They eat the rest of the food in silence, Natasha becoming more and more tired as she consumes each slice, and eventually, she pushes the box closer to Loki's end of the sofa, though she continues to pick at the wedges despite not being hungry anymore. When Loki has swallowed his last mouthful of pizza, and the remaining chicken strip is too cold and too dry for either of them to enjoy, Natasha pushes herself up from the sofa, collects the boxes and takes them out to the kitchen. After she's put them in the bin, she leans against the doorframe, and picks at the edge of her bandage.

"I'm gonna go to bed," she says. "Just…you know, make yourself at home, within reason." She doesn't even know what she's saying. She doesn't know why she's treating him like a half respectable guest when he tried to kill her last summer, but for some reason she can't bring herself to turn him away. There is, and always has been, a rather self destructive part of her that possesses a curiosity over things that she should probably leave well alone, and this is no different. She's curious as to what this new, sort-of-almost-not-quite redeemed Loki has to offer the world, and if it involves him trying to get the entire population to kneel.

"Within reason?"

"Yeah," Natasha says. "Like you can put your feet up providing your take your god damn shoes off," she says pointedly, eyeing his feet which are propped up on the coffee table, his heavy leather boots catching on the edge of his discarded magazine. He rolls his eyes and pulls his boots off, dropping them onto the floor one after the other with a couple of loud thuds.

"Good," Natasha says. "I'll see you in the morning."

She disappears into her bedroom and pulls back the covers on her bed, climbing in and getting herself settled. The gash in her hand is still smarting and so she rests it on the pillow, next to her face, in the hopes that if she keeps the weight of her duvet off of it, she won't notice it nearly as much. There is a small, paranoid part of her that festers in the back of her mind, telling her that right now, Loki is probably poisoning her cereals, or setting bear traps in the bathroom. He hasn't made a sound since she got into bed, and she stares at the ceiling, straining to hear him, racking her brains for what his motivation for coming to her apartment could possibly be. Surely he could have gone to a dozen other places? He could have talked his way into any hotel, used his magic to get his way. But instead he's wound up here, with her, and she can't really get her head around it.

She tries to push the thoughts away, knowing she needs sleep and knowing that an overactive mind is most definitely not the way to go about getting it. But just as she's starting to relax, when she's managed to convince her brain that she can deal with the situation in the morning, the covers on her bed lift up and Loki slides in next to her, making himself comfortable.

"What the hell are you doing?" Natasha demands, sitting bolt upright and glaring at him.

"There aren't any other beds," he says, tugging at the covers to get more for himself.

"So you sleep on the couch," she tells him, her heart still racing from the shock of having him join her unexpectedly.

"I'm not sleeping on that," he sneers. "It's had my shoes all over it."

She wonders whether she could hold him down long enough to suffocate him with the pillow, or if she ought to wait until he's fast asleep, just to give her a couple of seconds' head start. He tugs on the covers again and Natasha huffs and lies down, turning her back to him, fisting her hand around the edge of the duvet to get a firm grasp on it, ignoring the sting in her palm as she tightens her grip. She can hear him breathing, and every exhalation grates on her nerves. She's not used to having company while she sleeps, preferring silence, space, and solitude. She's constantly aware of the thin strip of mattress that separates her from him, notes every shift of the covers when he fidgets, his weight pulling the mattress down then letting it spring back up again when he's settled.

Eventually, she feels herself dropping off to sleep, and doesn't have much time left to wonder what the hell she's gotten herself into.