Work Text:
He had not expected to open his eyes again, but he did, to a barren, silent land.
It was a pattern he had not hoped to see repeated.
The Norns have plans for us all, Loki, Frigga had once told him, her voice warm even in his memories.
It seemed, then, that the Norns’ plans for Frigga had run dry, while he still lingered on, wraithlike, for some unknown purpose.
He recalled with astonishing clarity Thor’s anguished expression, the last thing he had expected to ever see. He hadn’t minded so much then, that the brother he had tried to deny would be the one to hold him as he breathed his last.
Atonement, then. Perhaps he lived so as to spare Thor sorrow – it had always been all about Thor, after all.
A little shiver of anger, almost instinctive at this point, ran through him.
But surely the Norns would not pluck Loki away from death itself just to please an insignificant prince of Asgard.
With effort, he swallowed down the vitriol coating his tongue.
Some part of him liked to think that he had understood Frigga well enough to know that this was what she would have wanted for him – a chance to start anew, time to set his simmering grudges aside, knowledge that he was loved.
Had been loved – his mother had loved him. He no longer had the strength to deny himself that one comfort, and he felt something soften in him at that tacit acceptance.
It was all the love he would ever need.
He struggled to sit up, hissing with the effort, palm pressed to the wound that continued to throb dully in his chest.
He had little magic, most of it working busily at his torn flesh, but it was enough for what he had in mind.
Asgard was closed to him, and without much thought, he turned for Midgard instead.
He was himself unsure what he hoped to achieve there, but he thought that perhaps he would not mind seeing Thor again.
It had amused him for a short time, toying with Thor's pet mortals the same way he once had with the Warriors Three (Sif at the very least was not so lack-witted that he could not spar verbally with her).
Merely a bit of harmless fun and wreckage that helped to take his mind off the burnt-out husk that remained of his life.
But too often now, he found himself simply weary. It seemed that almost dying had that effect on most.
On the days he wandered alone, away from the city the Avengers so clearly claimed as theirs, his mind would turn unbidden to the future. If he even had one beyond Midgard. If Frigga had, perhaps, foreseen something for him other than the envy and anger that had ruled so much of his life.
He found it hard to care that one such as he had been brought so low. What did it matter, when he had chained himself to this blasted rock, could not even set foot off this Realm without risking the wrath of Asgard?
How fortunate they were to have Frigga's protection, even in death. Without it, he would have long ago reduced those golden towers to ash, or died trying.
They would never know how much they owed to their former Queen. Let them continue to think him a coward, a weakling, as they always had.
When these times of reflection passed, he would return to the city of New York to find it awaiting his presence. It was extraordinary how a simple spell could now amuse him for hours, sending the mortals scurrying about in a frenzy of insect-like panic.
As if they thought to survive should his wrath truly be turned on them.
And then the Avengers would arrive, and the real fun would begin.
It shamed him to have to admit that he lived for these skirmishes. But he truly had no other interest in Midgard, and he had yet to find any other pastime that gave him as much joy.
Frigga had ever been easy to please – the happiness of her family had always been her own happiness – but he less so.
Until that idiot Stark had come along.
By the Norns, the mortal had ruined his eye, and he hadn’t even killed any of them.
The healing process had been long and arduous, and once more he had journeyed away from that thrice-blasted city, losing himself in the vast wildernesses still present in small pockets on Midgard. Such a beautiful Realm, inhabited by fools and brutes.
He had meant only to frighten Stark when he returned, to remind him exactly who Loki was, but the silly creature had been so heavily medicated it was doubtful that any part of his threat had registered.
Besides, his touch had been soft. Warm. Concerned.
He could remember much too clearly the last time someone had touched him in that manner. He had thought himself to be dying at the time, and the scene was quite firmly embedded in his memory.
Healing Stark was a rare impulse, but he allowed himself this moment of indulgence. After all, the mortal was one of his main sources of entertainment on this Realm.
He had not then realised that he had, by his very action, ruined the only thing that he still looked forward to in life.
But he certainly realised it the next time he came face to face with the Avengers.
It was as if that simple action had quite suddenly destroyed his ability to deceive himself about these mortal heroes. Where once he had found delight in harrying them to and fro, in the open looks of consternation upon their faces, it all now felt painfully hollow.
Even, perhaps, slightly distressing.
He simply did not expend his energy healing foes, and yet he had healed Stark of his decidedly superficial wounds.
What was the point of it all? He didn’t even truly dislike them the way he had the Warriors Three, who had grated on his nerves more often than not.
Truly, what a surprise it was to discover once again that his life was nothing more than a colossal waste of time and effort.
He thought to rectify his mistake then, to make Stark hurt like he never had, to slaughter him cruelly in a way one would never even treat a dumb beast.
And yet again, he found that he had underestimated the mortal's formidable intelligence. Had not imagined that anyone could (or would) see right through to his core before he had even an inkling of his own stupidity.
Come, let us play a game to take your mind off your frustrations, Loki, Frigga had once said to him, and he stared blankly as Stark repeated his mother's offer with ignorant impunity.
The mortal proved to be surprisingly good company. For all he seemed enamoured of his own voice, Stark turned out to be quite capable of extended periods of silence. In turn, his mind quietened, and he was able to graciously make his leave as the sun rose, foul mood gone if not forgotten.
“Drop by the next time you’re bored,” Stark had said, and there was no condescension in his tone – so he did.
The following months gave him quite a different sort of happiness from the one he had used to partake of.
This – sitting in stillness, mind focused on one diversion or other, with Stark’s occasional chatter drawing his attention – felt almost like peace.
In all his years of life, he had rarely had the opportunity to idle in this manner. Always it was one errand or another, or racing after Thor’s broad back in the distance, or plotting some form of mischief to sate his growing bitterness.
For the first time in a long time, he felt restful.
Stark was not at all what he had expected. Certainly, he treated Loki with outrageous disrespect, but it was the same disrespect he subjected everyone else to, and it was pleasing to be viewed as a peer for once, even if it was only by a mortal.
Just the genuine pleasure on Stark’s face each time he materialised in that ostentatious building made the effort worth his while.
The intimacy that resulted was a most pleasant consequence, a way to bind Stark to himself, to selfishly keep this little corner of peace he had managed to eke out for just a little while longer.
But once again, he succeeded in almost ruining everything simply by virtue of being himself.
He would not soon forget the bewilderment, the fear that had seized him as the mortal half collapsed atop him, moaning and whimpering as if in pain, barely able to speak through his discomfort.
And to find out that he had been the cause – Loki had never been one to shy away from causing pain. Unlike Thor, who favoured instant death for his enemies, he was not ashamed to claim malicious torture as part of his repertoire.
But Stark was his friend, his lover. The sight of the mortal’s confused, feverish face, still trusting Loki to care for him in the midst of his pain, felt almost like a physical hurt.
He had stayed. Of course he had stayed.
Even if he had expected Stark to be repulsed by him the next morning, having contaminated the mortal with his filthy Jotunn seed.
He should have known by then that Stark was anything but predictable.
Instead of shying away in horror, the mortal had dined with him, teased him, kissed him.
At that moment, he realised that he had, perhaps, bound himself to Stark in return as well.
The next time they went to bed, he allowed Stark to take him – a matter of safety, he told himself. He would not take the risk of losing himself to his pleasure and finding his release within the mortal’s body, not when passion still ran so high between them.
But when Stark soothed him with his careful touches and terrible jests, when he entered Loki with such gentle consideration, he realised that it was just as much a matter of trust.
Something that he thought might be time to extend to the rest of the Avengers as well, for Stark’s sake rather than his.
Even if these heroes proved themselves to be in violent opposition, surely they would prefer to learn of his dalliance with Stark sooner rather than later, when the sense of betrayal would still be mild rather than bone-deep.
He was not the one who would have to bear the brunt of their displeasure after all, although perhaps they would bear his should they succeed in tearing his lover away from him.
He knew all too well the depths of fury that could be uncovered in the wake of a betrayal, and it was that which he hoped to protect Stark from.
The mortal had done much for him simply by extending the hand of friendship, had provided him a safe haven when life had worn him out, with no intent other than kindness.
He was still brittle, with sharp edges waiting to be uncovered, unsure of his future and his purpose, but for the time being he was content with who and where he was.
Not Thor’s Loki, nor Asgard’s prince, nor, for such a short time, Your Majesty (how Sif's eyes had burned into him).
He was merely Stark's Lokes, and as petty and ridiculous as the name might be, he felt that it suited him sufficiently well.