It is cold. You hate the sensation of it, as much as you love the excuse to wrap up, to not be the only one in long sleeves and layers. You have learned, however, to hate the season for more reasons than the weather. You almost put Clint in a coma. If you'd have been just a few seconds slower, he would have kissed you to free each of you from the mistletoe, and who knows when he would have woken again.
You feel a little sick over it still, physically upset as the ever-present burden of isolation, guilt, and self-hatred settles like a cold, wet blanket over your shoulders. But you have been given a horse, the creature depends on you, and you are not enough of a monster to let it starve, to let a day pass without seeing it.
And then, of course, it's him. And just as you attempt to walk beyond him you realize that you can not - nether of you can move. He sighs and gives you an awkward smile. "That wasn't there a minute ago."
And it isn't fair. You curse and you tense, because you really didn't want to be this close to him again, not after yesterday. You didn't want to be this close to all that he was offering you and all that you had to, must, reject. You remember the day before, standing quite close to him after he'd explained about setting a ward on you without your consent, told you that he was more concerned for your safety than your good opinion... your pulse flickers in your throat, beating more quickly, and you can't look away from him anymore than you can step free of the enchanged mistletoe. "So you know about these? Any chance you could set it on fire?"
"It doesn't work. I've certainly tried." He makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Being caught in such a fashion with person after person who would rather kiss a vulture has done wonders for my pride, I assure you." You can see that he is telling the truth. It's written in his tone, in the slant of his eyes, in his word to you. "I think after this I will just go home and not leave again until someone tells me this infernal plant has wholly vanished."
You wish you'd thought of that. Your face contorts with guilt, not just due to the current circumstances - this was a really terrible idea - but because of what almost happened. You exhale a shaky breath and glance away, finding it hard to look at him. "I nearly put someone in a coma. Guess I should have done that too."
"I... are you all right?" he says, and it makes no sense. How can he demonstrate concern for you when you are what you are? At first, you offer him what you think it is best to say, but then... because he asked, because he cared, because of who he is and who he was to you, and what you both will have to do to get free, you meet his gaze and tell them the truth, "No. I really hate this."
And well done, Rogue, honestly. He'd just confessed to how hurt he was due to his previous experiences, and here you were talking about how much you hated the situation. But it wasn't about kissing him - no, you only wish that you could hate that. The vast majority of you wouldn't mind kissing Loki again, no, not at all. This is hardly even about him, or about the damage you know this will do to the defenses of your heart. This is about you, yourself, your skin, and the lack of control. You apologize, and it's not enough.
How can you look at me like you do?
He tells you that it is alright, and you believe him. He looks at you like you're the only person he sees, and not like you are a fragile, broken thing, but as though you are... valuable. Worth something.
Another quiet confession, admitting to the meaning of this - of contact, of being able to touch. He knows, he at least understands in part, enough to grant you that while it might not be a big deal to him, he knows it is of immeasurable significance to you. And he does not seek to take advantage of that. When he kisses you, it's on your gloved hand. And nothing happens.
And then he touches your cheek, and the world falls out from beneath your feet. Nothing else is the same as that point of contact, the slight chill of his skin and the simple human contact. You shiver. You rest against his palm. You know you shouldn't and you don't care, because for all of their warnings and for all of his past, Loki has never been anything other than good to you. And that matters. And what he is doing now, how he is treating you, his behavior in the village matters. It all has to matter, or none of it does.
He waits. He waits for such a long time, until you have almost grown accustomed to the sensation of touch. He waits until you have opened your eyes, until the thoughts and memories of kissing him have bubbled up from somewhere inside your core and you can almost feel the pressure of his lips on yours. Then, making sure you can track the movement, he does not kiss your lips at all.
Instead, with a tenderness that you feel like a brand, he presses a kiss to your temple. "There. You can get away now if you want," and his voice is temptation itself, it's a fireplace and candlelight and chocolate and skin upon skin with the promise of more.
You do not want to move away. You know that you should. You do not want to break off whatever this understanding is between you two, but the way he is looking at you right now is dangerous, and you feel your heart open before him because he won't take, but he waits, and he wants, and he tries, and has been true. And all of that intensity is focused on you. And he is willing to give, to give to you, and to give you the one thing you want beyond all others.
Would it be so wrong to just let yourself taste it, just for a minute? Must you rush away and pretend this meant nothing when... when that would be completely not true? It should mean nothing, you know that, you know what he's done. But you also know what he's done to you, with you, for you... and somehow that seems more important right now.
"Just a minute, okay?" You hear yourself say it as you shut your eyes, lean into his touch, sway a little closer. "Just a minute."
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You feel a little sick over it still, physically upset as the ever-present burden of isolation, guilt, and self-hatred settles like a cold, wet blanket over your shoulders. But you have been given a horse, the creature depends on you, and you are not enough of a monster to let it starve, to let a day pass without seeing it.
And then, of course, it's him. And just as you attempt to walk beyond him you realize that you can not - nether of you can move. He sighs and gives you an awkward smile. "That wasn't there a minute ago."
And it isn't fair. You curse and you tense, because you really didn't want to be this close to him again, not after yesterday. You didn't want to be this close to all that he was offering you and all that you had to, must, reject. You remember the day before, standing quite close to him after he'd explained about setting a ward on you without your consent, told you that he was more concerned for your safety than your good opinion... your pulse flickers in your throat, beating more quickly, and you can't look away from him anymore than you can step free of the enchanged mistletoe. "So you know about these? Any chance you could set it on fire?"
"It doesn't work. I've certainly tried." He makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Being caught in such a fashion with person after person who would rather kiss a vulture has done wonders for my pride, I assure you." You can see that he is telling the truth. It's written in his tone, in the slant of his eyes, in his word to you. "I think after this I will just go home and not leave again until someone tells me this infernal plant has wholly vanished."
You wish you'd thought of that. Your face contorts with guilt, not just due to the current circumstances - this was a really terrible idea - but because of what almost happened. You exhale a shaky breath and glance away, finding it hard to look at him. "I nearly put someone in a coma. Guess I should have done that too."
"I... are you all right?" he says, and it makes no sense. How can he demonstrate concern for you when you are what you are? At first, you offer him what you think it is best to say, but then... because he asked, because he cared, because of who he is and who he was to you, and what you both will have to do to get free, you meet his gaze and tell them the truth, "No. I really hate this."
And well done, Rogue, honestly. He'd just confessed to how hurt he was due to his previous experiences, and here you were talking about how much you hated the situation. But it wasn't about kissing him - no, you only wish that you could hate that. The vast majority of you wouldn't mind kissing Loki again, no, not at all. This is hardly even about him, or about the damage you know this will do to the defenses of your heart. This is about you, yourself, your skin, and the lack of control. You apologize, and it's not enough.
How can you look at me like you do?
He tells you that it is alright, and you believe him. He looks at you like you're the only person he sees, and not like you are a fragile, broken thing, but as though you are... valuable. Worth something.
Another quiet confession, admitting to the meaning of this - of contact, of being able to touch. He knows, he at least understands in part, enough to grant you that while it might not be a big deal to him, he knows it is of immeasurable significance to you. And he does not seek to take advantage of that. When he kisses you, it's on your gloved hand. And nothing happens.
And then he touches your cheek, and the world falls out from beneath your feet. Nothing else is the same as that point of contact, the slight chill of his skin and the simple human contact. You shiver. You rest against his palm. You know you shouldn't and you don't care, because for all of their warnings and for all of his past, Loki has never been anything other than good to you. And that matters. And what he is doing now, how he is treating you, his behavior in the village matters. It all has to matter, or none of it does.
He waits. He waits for such a long time, until you have almost grown accustomed to the sensation of touch. He waits until you have opened your eyes, until the thoughts and memories of kissing him have bubbled up from somewhere inside your core and you can almost feel the pressure of his lips on yours. Then, making sure you can track the movement, he does not kiss your lips at all.
Instead, with a tenderness that you feel like a brand, he presses a kiss to your temple. "There. You can get away now if you want," and his voice is temptation itself, it's a fireplace and candlelight and chocolate and skin upon skin with the promise of more.
You do not want to move away. You know that you should. You do not want to break off whatever this understanding is between you two, but the way he is looking at you right now is dangerous, and you feel your heart open before him because he won't take, but he waits, and he wants, and he tries, and has been true. And all of that intensity is focused on you. And he is willing to give, to give to you, and to give you the one thing you want beyond all others.
Would it be so wrong to just let yourself taste it, just for a minute? Must you rush away and pretend this meant nothing when... when that would be completely not true? It should mean nothing, you know that, you know what he's done. But you also know what he's done to you, with you, for you... and somehow that seems more important right now.
"Just a minute, okay?" You hear yourself say it as you shut your eyes, lean into his touch, sway a little closer. "Just a minute."