A Study in Crimson and Viridian

Rating: PG-13 (ratings vary per chapter)
Characters/Pairings: FrostIron (Loki/Tony), canongirl!Tony Stark(i.e. Natasha Stark), and the rest of the Avengers movie cast.
Warnings: Movie spoilers, obviously, and in a major way. Spoilers for various events throughout the comic-verse, including Civil War, Dark Reign, and Siege.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Well, except Earth-199990, but that's pretty useless to me without all these great Marvel characters.
Notes: War is coming.

EPILOGUE

"What are you doing here? And—" Natasha's eyes flick to the door to see it is completely undamaged. "And who let you in?"

Romanoff is dressed elegantly in a dark suit that hugs every perfect curve of her body. It makes what is mostly a very modest outfit look indecent. Natasha admires the Russian beauty as one would a master's work of art. Romanoff doesn't immediately answer, taking her time to admire what changes Natasha has made to the workshop in her Malibu home—there is a familiarity in the way she maneuvers around the equipment and Natasha narrows her eyes with irritation, recalling the agent's time spent as Fury's spy.

Finally, Romanoff clears her throat and smiles secretively, flicking her eyes in Natasha's direction as pauses before the row of Natasha's armored suits. "It's my day off. Pepper asked me to check in on you, since you won't let anyone else within a ten-foot radius of the Tower."

Natasha snorts, returning to her work on her arm and the armor encasing it. "And you thought you were the exception?"

Romanoff doesn't shrug—seems incapable of inelegance—and merely turns her attention to a table of prototypes Natasha has been working on for the next showing. "No. But no amount of fancy gadgetry can keep me out."

Natasha rolls her eyes, fiddling with a .80 millimeter screwdriver but not really applying it to any use on the arm. She flexes her fingers and wrist but her focus is gone and her thoughts are too many and too quick.

After a moment, because she can still feel Romanoff's eyes on the back of her neck, Natasha says, "I didn't realize Fury actually gave you guys vacation time."

"We didn't really give him much of a choice. I'd say we earned it, no?" Romanoff's heels click across the tiled floor as she crosses the room, deceivingly delicate. She grabs a stool from one of the workstations on her way and sets it next to the desk and sits.

Natasha's eyes only flicker once towards her. She tries to maintain the illusion that she's caught up in her work, hoping that will dissuade Romanoff from … whatever the hell she's up to. It is with no small amount of trepidation that Natasha tries to work out what the other woman has been assigned to accomplish here. She's known the other for a little longer than she's known most of the other agents in S.H.I.E.L.D., barring Coulson, but that hardly makes her an authority on the former KGB spy.

She lets her mouth run with the first thing that springs to mind as she frowns down at the mechanical arm wrapped around her flesh one. "And why is Pepper sending you to come check up on me? Or, better yet, why would you agree?"

"The unusual circumstances of our first acquaintanceship notwithstanding, Pepper is still a good friend."

Natasha looks up, brows raised and lips quirked in an skeptical smirk. "You, my dear, do not have friends. You have partners, maybe. Allies and co-workers, sure. But you don't have friends."

Romanoff doesn't look at all offended, smiling that same, secretive smile that never matches the expression in her eyes. It's one that Natasha can't name and doesn't know if she ever wants to. There is something frigid there. Dark and empty like the caverns in Natasha's nightmares where it's only her and a battery and rock and darkness and there's nobody else. No salvation.

Natasha tears her eyes away as Romanoff says, "You're right. Yes, she is a comrade, not a friend."

All that Natasha can do is nod, nudging wires around her wrist to keep busy. "Don't worry, I won't break her heart by telling her."

Romanoff hums softly. "You're very good at deflecting, Stark."

"I didn't realize I was deflecting, Natalie."

"Of course you are." When Natasha doesn't respond, Romanoff continues. "The Captain stopped by headquarters today. He wanted to know how you were doing."

Natasha sniffs, just this side of disdain coloring her words, "Well, isn't he just a peach? What's he doing back, anyway? I thought he was out traipsing across the backwaters of 'Murrica."

"He is still required to make reports to Fury. Obviously, we can't just let him go off on his—"

The screwdriver clatters noisily to the desk. Natasha is glaring into a spot on the desk between her flesh hand and the hand suited in armor.

"You cannot be serious."

Romanoff doesn't bother with a response.

Shaking her head and snorting angrily, Natasha starts at the clasps on the armor so she can free her arm. "Whatever. If that idiot still wants to play fetch for the military and wag his tale for Fury, why should I care?"

"I thought you and the Captain were getting along? You seemed almost friendly the last time I saw you together."

Natasha wants to immediately argue that, no, she can't stand that bumbling goody-two shoes from another era—but this is Rogers. And even if he thinks of her as a brat with an overinflated sense of self-importance, she can't deny the part of her that was glad when he'd shaken her hand after everything and smiled at her like they could ever be equals.

"We worked well together," Natasha says at last, because she's a coward and even if Romanoff probably couldn't care less, Natasha thinks she's physically incapable of talking about her feelings unless she's drank her weight in liquor. "But we all did. It's nothing special."

"I think there's definitely something special between you and Rogers."

Natasha cuts Romanoff an incredulous and vaguely horrified look. Incredulous because, seriously? Her, too? (Coulson had said the same thing a while ago and it didn't make it any less creepy to hear the second time around.) And horrified because—was Romanoff really about to talk boys with her?

"No thanks. I like my men with experience. Also, we can't be together for more than five minutes before we're trying to kill each other."

Romanoff sits entirely too elegant in the stool as her green eyes run up and down Natasha's length like she's prey—or, if Natasha were foolish enough to believe, as if she was checking her out. She goes with the second thought because Romanoff looking at her like prey is too disconcerting a thought to entertain.

"You do seem to have a natural propensity for getting under people's skin. I've never seen anyone piss off the Cap the way you do."

Natasha's arm slips free and she casts Romanoff a fleeting smirk. "It's a family trait, I hear."

Romanoff says seriously, "You're a very strange and unique kind of woman, Natasha."

Natasha blinks, looking away from the dismantled armor on her desk to see the agent watching her with more intensity than she'd have liked. She is surprised mostly because the last time Romanoff called her by her first name it was when Natasha had been fending off a wave of Hammer's drones—it's a little ominous to hear it now and indicative of where this conversation may be headed.

She tries to play off her unease with a snort and a roll of her eyes. "This coming from the woman desired and feared by every straight man she comes into contact with."

Romanoff doesn't smile again; Natasha can't decide which she prefers. "Yes, but you're different."

Natasha's brows hike high on her forehead and she swivels her chair so she's facing Romanoff, interested if only because she loves to hear what others thought about her. As if they had any fucking clue what went on in her head. At least Pepper, Happy and Rhodey didn't work off assumptions and didn't pretend to understand her any better than they did. She damps down the spark of indignation; doesn't want to give the agent the satisfaction.

"Oh, so you've figured out the puzzle?" Natasha grins, all irony and no warmth. "Well, let's hear it. Let's see if you can win the grand prize."

Romanoff's eyes are steady, and she remains perfectly unperturbed by Natasha's barbed words. "I don't really know what it is, either."

Natasha rolls her eyes, slumping back against her seat dramatically. "Well, boo, that's boring!"

Romanoff says, "It's the way people react to you. It's fascinating. We watch you—"

Natasha blinks. "Who? You and Barton?"

"Yes."

Natasha leers. "That's kinky."

Romanoff doesn't look impressed. "It's part of the job."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Oh. Right. Because S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps tabs on everyone. Yeah. Not so flattered anymore."

Romanoff ignores her. "You have a way of drawing out the side in people they'd rather keep hidden. It's a trait that is highly valued in my particular profession, but incredibly annoying in a nerdy mechanic with an oversized ego."

"Ouch, baby. That one hurt," Natasha pouts, placing a hand over her reactor.

"You and I are independent women working successfully in a man's world—"

Natasha groans, bringing her hand to swipe down her face. "Oh god. Are you gunna go all Women's Rights on me?"

"I'm saying—it's rare for a woman to be in our line of work—"

"Please, dear god, let this be over—"

"—and be treated as equals. It helps that the men we work with aren't complete idiots, but all the same, this is a country that still refuses to allow women to serve in active duty."

Natasha snorts under her hand. "What are you talking about? There are loads of chicks in the military."

"Women are not permitted to serve on the frontlines. Though that doesn't mean they don't get caught up in the fighting eventually. But that isn't the point."

Natasha drops her hand to her lap, bouncing her head impatiently against the back of the chair—she mumbles, "There's a point?"

"Stop talking for one second and I'll get to it." Romanoff is glaring now; Natasha's tongue is suddenly lead in her mouth. "This is exactly what I mean. You get to people. You get past whatever pretense they've put up for themselves and you push until they show you something terrible or interesting or both. I'm not sure if that's all it is to you—a game—but I know you have to be at least partially aware of it."

Natasha shrugs. She knows what she's like—takes pride in it occasionally—but it's a trait she only rarely employs on purpose. Most of the time, she doesn't mean for what comes out of her mouth to be as offensive as it is—but she can't help her honesty. It's not like she'd had anyone to tell her it was socially unacceptable to be the way she was—and it was only through careful observation of others that she eventually learned to imitate the masses when her duties as CEO required it of her. A lot of times, she just reacts. Words come quickly to her and so she lashes out with them first and without thought the moment her pride is threatened.

"Like with Bruce," Romanoff is saying, "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s spent a long time tracking him and a longer time trying to convince him to lend us his knowledge on Gamma radiation. You're an asshole—almost a bigger one than the Director—yet you somehow managed to be the one person he decides to trust."

Natasha's eyes narrow. "Well, I don't know about that, but it helps when you treat the guy like a human being and not a walking time-bomb."

Romanoff doesn't comment. "You get to Rogers—make him snap and forget he's basically the poster boy for love and puppies and all that's good in the world."

Natasha can't help it. She grins, "I'm telling him you said that. Sarcasm included. I totally heard it."

Romanoff rolls her eyes. "Rogers is your classic gentleman. It's annoying. When we're not on the field, he goes around opening doors and pulling out chairs for me."

Natasha rolls a shoulder; contains another grin and suggests, "Maybe he's courting you?"

"No, that's just how they bred 'em, back in the day. He does the same for Agent Hill."

"Not me," Natasha points out, already bored with this conversation. She picks up her screwdriver again, twirling it between her fingers.

"Yes. The Captain and Thor share a very similar sort of chivalry that seems to extend to every woman but you."

Natasha blinks. "Uh …"

Suddenly, she has absolutely no idea what they are talking about. The conversation had already taken a turn into weird about five minutes back, but now …

"You do realize that the way Rogers treats you is entirely different from the way he treats others? Likewise, Thor is the sort of old fashioned God who doesn't believe in striking a woman, even if he is willing to fight alongside them."

"I'd beg to differ." Natasha touches her fingers to her chest where she can still distinctly recall the bruise Thor had left her with when he'd bashed her with Mjolnir.

Romanoff says, almost pensively, "I don't even think you register as a woman with them."

Natasha should probably be offended, but she's more surprised than anything so she just stares. "I'll have you know that Rogers called me 'dame' when we first met."

"And then he got to know you."

Natasha shrugs. "Yeah. Well …" She scrunches her face in confusion and frowns at the other woman. "You have way too much time on your hands if you have this much time to psychoanalyze me. What are you even getting at?"

"We used to be able to talk, you and I," Romanoff says instead of answering directly.

"That was when I thought you could be trusted," Natasha shrugs—doesn't feel the bitterness she might have felt once upon a time. "

"I was doing my job."

"You did a good job," Natasha says, plucking a small plate of reflective metal from her desk to keep her hands occupied.

"One of the things I came here to tell you is that—you shouldn't push everyone away and keep everything to yourself. You have friends, Stark. You have people who care about you. People—even—who are willing to disobey orders for you."

Natasha frowns, startled and confused—and then Romanoff is setting something down on the desk.

It's a box.

Simple and sleek—black lacquer and all too familiar.

"Coulson has never said a thing to Fury—but it's my job to know things."

For a second, Natasha panics—but she swallows it down and looks up to meet Romanoff's gaze, unflinching. "So you know."

Romanoff proves that she is unmatched in the arts of torture and interrogation. The length of time she takes to speak are the longest and heaviest Natasha has ever had to endure. Her heart is racing in her chest—pounding fiercely against the reactor. Sweat breaks out on her palms and the back of her neck and she waits.

Romanoff's face is so impassive—so in control—and her eyes shield her thoughts expertly.

Finally, she says, "Loki spared Coulson when he had every chance to kill him. For that, he has my gratitude. He is still the enemy—but I always repay my debts."

Natasha takes Romanoff's advice.

In a way.

She returns to her life as Natasha Stark—attends social gatherings and finds eager men to take to bed. She dodges Pepper's attempts to find her a new assistant—proves she doesn't need one by taking an acting interest in her company once more. The Mark VII is rebuilt and refurbished—then set aside to join the other suits in collecting dust while she focuses on her company and reminds the world exactly why Stark Industries was uncontested.

Her life is nearly perfect again.

Normal.

Some days it's everything she can do just to breathe—like she's spent so long submerged under chaotic waters that now that she's free she doesn't know what she's supposed to do with oxygen. Inhale. Exhale. It's a process she'd never thought she'd have to practice to remember.

It doesn't happen too often—only when she has time to sleep, but she usually finds she's too busy for even that.

Some days—though—some days Natasha is just waiting for the next tidal wave to crash into her life.

Six Months After Chitauri Incident

She wakes before the nightmares can take too firm a hold on her.

It's with a feeling of incredible relief that she slips out of bed and wanders through the darkness to her wardrobe to find something quick and comfortable to slip into. She finds a shirt and some sweats and is careful not to make a sound as she leaves her bedroom and its guest to make her way to the kitchen. There is a box of donuts on the counter and a fresh pot of coffee and Natasha grimaces. The only reason Pepper wasn't commenting on the number of 'dates' Natasha had been taking lately was because this was the most Natasha has ever spent participating in the affairs of her company in nearly three years. Work was good and Natasha—for the most part—was exhibiting exemplary behavior in the workplace—but Pepper's silence on the way Natasha had been choosing to conduct her personal life did not signify her approval.

With a sigh, she pours herself a mug of black coffee and plucks the donut with the most frosting from the box. She takes both to the couch, sets her mug on the coffee table to snatch the tablet and pull up a page listing the various stocks Stark Industries was invested in. When she's finished with the donut, she wipes her hand on her pants leg and slips the stylus from the tablet to resume her work on the new Iron Woman blueprints. The Mark VII had proven to be incompatible with the nano-tech beta—but after taking it out for a test run against the Chitauri, Natasha had already come to the decision to make a new suit altogether. After all, art is never finished. Only abandoned. Her ideas for improvement were limitless—it would be pointless to resume her work with the Mark VII when she could build a new one altogether.

Nearly an hour passes in this fashion. She's surprised when she looks up and finds the sky is lighter—hadn't realized how fixed upon her work she must have been. It's then that she notices the television is on—volume tuned low but audible enough to dash away the silence of the penthouse. She blinks at it—wonders if Pepper had set it on a timer, presuming Natasha would have still been asleep by this hour and had meant for it to be on by the time she'd awoken. She's certain she hadn't turned it on herself but dismisses the thought, reaching for her (probably cold) coffee and—

Sees the bottle of Krug Champagne sitting, unblemished, at the center of the coffee table.

Shaky fingers curl around her mug and—without looking away from the champagne—she brings the mug to her lips and sips.

(Her heart stutters in her chest)

It tastes of …

"Good morning, Ms. Stark."

Natasha inhales sharply in fright—and the breath catches in her throat. The mug slips from her hands and—

Freezes mid-spill, suspended in the air by an unseen force.

Natasha looks from the mug—then looks up to see Loki—Loki! Dressed in probably the only pair of clothing he actually owns and didn't have to conjure; jeans and a thin t-shirt—and he's standing there, hands in his pockets and looking impossibly at ease. He nudges his chin at the coffee table and she sees two crystal flutes materialize out of nothing. Loki casually slips a hand from his pocket—makes a twisting motion—then the coffee mug is righting itself and settling itself back into her hands without a drop of it spilt.

"If it's all the same to you, I believe I'll have that drink now."

Natasha gapes unattractively—and then her mind kicks back to life and her eyes narrow with a thought. "Thor."

Loki smiles. "My brother is incapable of discretion." He considers her for a second, smile twitching wider. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

Natasha scowls, reclining back against the couch. "It's been six months. I'd kinda given up hope."

Loki chuckles. "It was rather conniving of you—relying on my brother's unfailing loyalty and unbearable sentimentality. He knew it would be dangerous to permit me to remain in Asgard—but he could not simply allow me to be banished without making certain that I would be guarded."

Natasha's eyes narrow further. "And your punishment?"

Opening his arms, he smirks. "I was exiled, as you may have surmised. Banished. I am, once more, without a home."

Natasha snorts, arching a brow. "You don't seem that upset."

Loki shrugs, stepping around the coffee table to take a seat on the couch beside her. He reaches out for the champagne bottle and grabs both flutes with his other hand. He explains, "The punishment could have been more severe—there were talks of sewing my mouth shut and banishing me to the Isle of Silence."

Natasha balks, accepting the crystal flute. "The what?"

The cap of the bottle is dissolved with magic and Loki reaches to fill her glass first. "Fortunately, my brother's crimes far outweigh my own. You could say I got off without a punishment at all."

"Wait—Thor? What did he do?"

Loki's smirk reveals boyish glee as he fills his flute and says, "He reignited war between Asgard and Jotunheim. Quite frankly, I am the least of my father's concern."

"Are you?" Natasha asks, skeptically.

Loki reaches to clink their glasses together. "There is no need for concern. None, save myself, have ever slipped beneath the notice of Heimdall."

Natasha sips carefully, watching him with open suspicion. Eventually, she admits, "I know there's more I still haven't figured out."

Loki chuckles quietly—watches her mouth as she takes another sip. "Even if I do, it would be only a matter of time before you worked it out."

She hums in agreement—can't help the self-satisfied smirk that flits into place. "That was a pretty impressive plan. By the time I figured it out—it was already over. I can't even be upset about it—it was that brilliant."

"The key to strategy is not to choose a path to victory, but to choose so that all paths lead to a victory." He sits forward so his elbows rest on his knees, champagne flute dangling between long fingers. He's smiling and still watching her as he says, "But even you. Your genius never fails to impress me. You managed to use my victory to create a success for yourself. Now—I am stranded on Earth with no army and no way to return to Asgard."

Natasha flashes him a sharp grin, pulling up her legs so she's sitting cross-legged on the couch and shifting so she's facing him. "I'm a sore loser," she shrugs. "Also—I don't trust you, and I can't rely on anyone but myself to keep an eye on you."

Loki seems amused. He arches a brow and offers a nod. "Of course."

As he raises his flute to take a sip his eyes are drawn to something behind her. Turning, she sees the gorgeous blond she'd hooked up with the night before standing awkwardly in the hallway. He looks between her and Loki, brow furrowing in consternation.

Natasha blinks—then smiles sweetly, "You're still here?"

"I—"

She nods her head in the direction of the elevator. "You can let yourself out."

Flushing furiously, the man scrambles out of the penthouse without another word.

"Really, Natasha? That was a little rude," Loki chastising her with a frown that is belayed by his smirk.

Natasha slumps her side against the couch and returns his smirk. "He was only interested in getting a scoop on the Avengers and Iron Woman and—you, actually."

Loki snorts, expression contorting with disgust. It lasts for only a moment because the elevator dings and they both turn to see Pepper stepping into the penthouse with an armful of paperwork.

"Natasha, did I just see—" Pepper freezes the moment she sees that Natasha is not alone—it takes her a full minute to recognize the man beside her. When she does, she all but squeals in glee. "Lucas! Sweetie! Oh, I'm glad you're back!"

Loki stands, maneuvering around the couch to greet Pepper. He extends a hand to her; murmurs, "Ms. Potts."

Pepper drops the documents on the nearest surface and rushes forward to envelope the unsuspecting Trickster in a hug. Natasha smirks and Pepper pulls away just as quickly, smiling sheepishly. "Oh—I'm sorry. That was unprofessional—I'm just so glad to have you back!" She falters—glances past him to check with Natasha then looks back to Loki, hesitant. "You are back, aren't you? I mean—I'm sorry. I don't mean to presume, I just—"

"No, it's quite alright, Ms. Potts," Loki says smoothly. "I'd like to return—if you'll have me."

Both former assistants glance over to Natasha and she shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

"I like your coffee."

Pepper huffs, rolling her eyes. "Oh, don't listen to her! She's just as excited to have you back. She hasn't been the same since you've been gone!"

Natasha groans. "Seriously, Pep?"

Pepper ignores her. "And then all that terrible business with the Chitauri and that Loki fellow—"

At that, Loki glances to her again, brow arched and smirk twisted in an accusatory yet amused smirk.

You have not told her? She hears his voice in her head.

Natasha rolls her eyes and thinks, Yeah—she hates me enough. Thanks. You can do the honors, if you're brave. She's not sure if he hears her, but there's a brief look of agitation to cross his eyes when he turns his attention back to Pepper.

Pepper is beaming, leading him by the arm back to couch and forcing him to return to his seat next to Natasha. She takes the seat opposite them and says, "This is wonderful! Lucas—you don't know how amazing this is!"

"Would you like to join us for champagne?" Loki says, gesturing to the third glass that has appeared on the coffee table. "I understand the Tower's remodeling has just been completed."

Pepper blinks at the empty flute, startled. "Oh! I didn't notice—Wait. Where did you get those? I didn't buy—"

Natasha smiles. "Pep. Focus."

Pepper startles. "Oh! Yes!" She jumps to her feet suddenly. "Wait—let me get Happy! I'll be right back!"

She leaves and Loki waves his hand, summoning a fourth crystal flute next to the third. He waits until they hear the elevator doors shut behind Pepper before he looks to Natasha. "She'll need to know. Your Avenger friends are sure to recognize me. She'll find out and when she does—"

Natasha sighs. "Yeah, I know." A thought occurs to her—absurd, but far more preferable to facing another month of Pepper's silence. "Or! Or—Lucas Olson can be your secret identity! I have a secret identity!"

Loki snorts. "I'm not sure you know the meaning of the word."

"Fair enough." She agrees easily enough because—well, for obvious reasons. "Well, you can tell whoever you'd like. I don't really care."

Loki frowns, curious more than concerned. "You're not worried it will affect your relationship with the other Avengers?"

Natasha grimaces. "Uh—yeah. About that. The Avengers have been—disassembled, I guess you could say. Bruce is the only one I keep in contact with, really, and I'm pretty much done with S.H.I.E.L.D."

Fury had called her selfish, Hill couldn't have cared less, Coulson thought she needed time and Barton and Romanoff were off moving on with their lives by resuming their work with S.H.I.E.L.D. as if nothing had happened. It's been a headache cutting ties with S.H.I.E.L.D. and a part of her thinks she might perhaps be acting out of petty anger. Her feelings for Fury should not affect her duty but there was also the matter of her disagreeing with about 85% of the way S.H.I.E.L.D. handled things. That wasn't going to change—not under Fury's directorship—and she's already reached her limit with people betraying and lying to her. She was tired of feeling used and tired of feeling like a fool. She has never felt as much of an idiot as she had since New York. It was a dirty—disgusting—feeling.

Apropos to nothing, she says, "I am, though."

"Pardon?"

She looks out to the shifting ocean her penthouse overlooks. "I'm glad you're back."

"I figured I caused you the most harm," Loki says. "Why would you want to strand me here? With you."

Natasha drops her eyes to her lap—can't organize her thoughts because she hasn't needed to; had put it off in favor of pretending everything was fine. "I thought—I thought I wanted a normal life."

Loki waits, but she has no more to share. After a moment, he says, "Everything is different now. You can't erase everything you've experienced now that it's all over."

Nothing would be the same ever again, but she no longer remembered what normal was and it was hard—hard to be with Pepper and Happy and Rhodey and know things. She'd seen things that not even Bruce could understand and even if he tried, he was never around anyway and—

"I need you here," she admits—and it's painful as well as refreshing to admit it out loud when it has only ever been a thought before. "I don't think I know how to move on by myself. I'm worried—I'm worried that I'll let this get the better of me and I can't help but feel I need to be prepared ..."

Loki doesn't say anything. She feels the heat of his gaze burning into the side of her face.

She licks her lips nervously and brings a hand to her chest—touches her fingers briefly along the hard edge of the reactor—then exhales.

"There's something coming." She can feel it in her bones. "And you're the only one—The only one."

The only one I can trust.

And I don't even trust you at all.

In the darkest depths of space—where not even Heimdall the Faithful may turn his All-Seeing gaze—a shrouded Figure sits upon His thrown and gazes out upon what would be His. "I gaze upon the cold Vastness of Space and muse upon my Life," speaks the Last Son of Titan. The low rumble of His voice resonates in the silence. "Both, I find, are empty."

The Other kneels—looks upon the Titan in thrall. "My Lord! The humans—they are not the cowering wretches we were promised. They stand. They are unruly and therefore cannot be ruled."

The Titan rises from His throne, massive countenance evidence of The Eternals' blessing—and with a Thought, the Other quivers in adulation—with a Thought, he quivers in pain as his body crumples against his will and he lowers himself against the blessedly cold stone.

He swallows his pain—doesn't allow himself a moment of breath and gasps, "To court them—is to court Death."

The Last Son looks upon The Other and smiles—and it is glorious and terrifying.

From behind The Other, speaks The Hand—the wretch, thinks The Other—and he says, "They are merely mortals, My Lord. They can be defeated."

The Other hisses, drawing away from The Hand as he dares step forward. "How do you expect to succeed where the Asgardian has failed?"

"I do not rely on trickery and mischief to accomplish my means. The Cube will be ours."

"All who oppose Me must die—and the first of these are the Earthian Heroes. I would have them destroyed for their defiance," rumbles the Titan. "Speak, Hand."

"Vengeance you shall have, My Lord—but you must first acquire that which the Asgardians have kept from you for so long. You must reclaim your Weapon—and then—then all of creation will bow down to you at last."

"And how will you do this, Hand? You are only one," sneers The Other.

"I will acquire us an army with which to challenge our Earthian foes. Earth, Asgard—and all the Nine Realms and more—it shall all be yours, My Lord."

The Titans smiles once more in pleasure—speaks out into the space as His eyes search the vastness:

"Death is coming."

End Notes: I guess I just really wanted to get this over and done with before the end of the year. Early Christmas present! Stay tuned for the second arc. Crimson and Viridian: Everything Burns. It should be coming out next week, as usual. No additional wait.