trickor | (no subject)

Well, that's certainly flattering, and he says as much with a smile and a gesture, a wineglass flickering into being as Loki pours for them both.

Her nostrils flare slightly as he pours, instinctively looking for signs of more blood. Even the infamous Black Widow can't tamp down every involuntary reaction.

"Don't look so anticipatory," he scolds mockingly, one eyebrow raising. "It's just wine."

That stung. He'd seen her hunger more than once now when he shouldn't have seen it at all. "Did you invite me here just to laugh at me?"

"I wouldn't have to invite you here for that."

But he does draw a flask out from the breast pocket of his suit, sliding it across the table.

"I won't tell you where this is from or how I obtained it. It is entirely your choice whether or not you wish to accept."

She takes it, though she doesn't open it yet to confirm its contents. Loki has secrets. No one could be surprised by that.

"Will you tell me something else then?"

Interesting.

"That depends entirely on what it is you wish to know."

"What are you?" she asks evenly, not really expecting him to tell her. "Not the same thing I am."

Oh, that... That is a loaded question.

"I am Loki," he says. And then stops there. He's not of Asgard, nor is he of Jotunheim. He's simply... Loki.

Natasha is good at loaded questions.

"...Fair enough. That's more of an answer than I was expecting."

She can't say it satisfies her, but it is what it is. She opens the flask.

She's greeted by the coppery scent of blood, rich and sweet and undeniably fresh. "Put it away," he hisses, eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you expected me to hand over, really, but you can't expect to be the only one here who is sensitive to such things."

She caps it again immediately, giving him a flat look. Other than him, who should she be expecting? She didn't argue, though. "You seemed to find it safe enough before."

"It's different when in the wine," he points out. "Surely you noticed that much. It's easier to resist when even slightly diluted."

She might have noticed, but even in wine, it had been so difficult for her to resist.

"You expected me not to check?" she says instead. It's not as though she has a reason to trust him.

"What else might it have been? An explosive?" Loki rolls his eyes, clearly derisive.

Natasha doesn't rise to the snide tone. "Probably not that," she says evenly. It only made sense to check anything Loki offered her. On the other hand, she worries that she opened it to be sure it really was blood because she was hungry and needed to be sure.

What if it had clouded her judgment? "Only one way to be sure."

Loki gives her a long look, propping his chin elegantly on the heel of one hand as he swirls his wineglass with the other. "Tell me, Lady Romanoff. How many of your type do you suppose are in this city?"

"I couldn't say. It's not as though we can take a census." She glances out around the restaurant. "It's a big city though. At least a few."

"A few," he parrots. "How did you come about this...affliction? If I might ask?"

"In a lab," she tells him flatly. "Because Russia was trying to build a better killer."

He couldn't be surprised.

He isn't, though the answer is disappointingly mundane. "Ah," he says, flat.

She's not sure what he'd have hoped for.

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't exactly know the ropes."

"For what, exactly?"

He's curious as to what she thinks he wants.

"You seem to expect me to know something about being... whatever I am. I don't."

"How long has it been?" he then has to ask. How long could she have gone being what she is without knowing anything about it? The lore, the legends, the lies and the truths?