Archive of Our Own ^beta

Loki’s folded in on himself, legs curled against his chest, chin resting on his knees. He doesn’t move. Barely breaths. Ignores the hunger churning in his belly.

Loki aches, down to his very being. But it doesn’t bother him; he’s used to it. 

Long ago, he’d compiled a list of all the people he had thought might come for him. 

 Thor. Odin. Frigga. Faceless Asgardian guards. Thanos. Battle-ready Avengers. SHIELD. 

 It wasn’t long a list, but it was enough, a tiny spark of hope (and fear) nestled in his chest that has long since gone out.

Bruce Banner is not on the list.

And yet, there the man is, frozen in Loki’s alleyway, groceries bundled under one arm, glasses slipping slowly off the bridge of the nose. Loki thinks he should say something witty or sarcastic, but the words fail to form on his tongue. 

Midgard has carved his silver tongue from his mouth and left nothing but the bitter taste of copper behind.

“Loki?” Banner asks, looking unsure. 

“Banner,” Loki says, simply. 

“I thought…” Banner stares, long and hard. Loki knows what he must see; he is filthy, starved, a skeleton of his former self. “We thought you were…” 

“Dead?” Loki suggests, and breathes out a humourless laugh. “If only.”

With his only free hand, Banner fumbles with his pocket, pulls out a phone, and holds it to his ear. His eyes, blown wide in shock, are fixed on Loki.

“Tony,” Banner says into the phone. “Listen— no, I don’t have time for pop science quizzes. Yes, I know what the mitochondria is, I went to high school. No, look, I found Loki—“

Banner looks thoroughly shaken, but as he recounts the last five minutes— “I was taking a shortcut  down an alley, and I thought he was just another homeless…” — his voice is surprisingly steady. 

It’s jarring to see someone from before Loki’s banishment. The Battle of New York feels like a lifetime ago. Seeing Banner, and having the avenger see him, like this— 

It doesn’t feel real. Now days, nothing does.

“Loki?” 

Banner has crouched down in front of him, bags at his feet, peering at Loki with concern. 

“Leave,” Loki says, voice quiet and strained from disuse. 

Banner shakes his head, shifting his weight on his knees. “I won’t.” 

“I just want to sit here,” Loki tells him. He doesn’t want to deal with this. Please, he thinks, leave me here in my filth. It’s what I am used to.

“Loki?” Banner presses. The man is calm, steady; there is no sign of the hulking monster Loki had once seen. “What happened?" 

Loki shrugs, and ignores the disapproving purse of Banner’s lips. 

Bruce looks up as a car door slams, and footsteps pound down the alley. Captain America kneels beside Banner, leaning over him and asking, “What happened, Bruce?”

Loki had once felt ashamed at how far he had fallen. Now, he hasn’t the energy to care. He just wants to sit. He does not want to move, or think, or contemplate what he once was. He just wants to sit here, alone. 

He knows they will not let him. Knows they will want to help him.

Fucking do-gooders.

(Eighteen months earlier.)

The hall room is larger than Loki remembers. His footsteps echo throughout the cavernous room; Loki had always been quiet when he walked, so he could better go by unseen, but now, Loki moves as roughly as he pleases. His chains clink together loudly. All eyes are on him. Good.

Odin sits at attention, gaze steady, one eye cold.

God, Loki hates him.

“Loki,” Odin says. “You have dishonoured—“

“Honour,” Loki scoffs. “As if you know anything of honour—” 

“Enough!” Odin demands, and Loki quietens, almost out of habit.

The court is silent save for Odin’s words and the gentle breaths of the Court. Loki shifts his weight, if only to hear the rattling of his chains. 

“You,” Odin continues, “brought death upon a peaceful realm. You killed mortals in their homes. Have you no shame, Loki?”

Loki smiles, sharply sweet. “It is no better than what Thor did to the peaceful realm of Jotunnheim. Or have you forgotten?”

The guard several feet to Loki’s left huffs a breathy laugh, sneering at the ex-prince from under his helmet.

“Something to say?” Loki asks. No more will he let Asgard silently mock him. No more. “I’m right, do not deny it.The Jotuns were a peaceful people after the war ended.” Loki stares up at Odin, let’s the King see the hate that lies in Loki’s gaze. “They share my blood, no?” 

Odin concedes his point with a nod of his head. “You raise interesting points. While your escapade left more destruction than Thor’s, and wasn’t due to youthful ignorance, the basis is not… unalike.”

A murmur breaks out amongst the Court, and Loki allows himself to feel momentarily pleased with himself.

“I had considered putting you to death, but that would be far too merciful. You claim you have committed no act worse than Thor? Perhaps, then, your punishments should be similar.”

Loki has a brief moment of confusion, and then his stomach plummets, heavy with dread, and he’s awash with understanding. 

Odin’s hand outstretches and Loki feels tendrils of magic take hold, tugging at him, changing him.

“Father—!” Thor shouts behind him. 

“Quiet!” Odin commands, but Thor still rushes forward into the edges of Loki’s vision, looking frantic, hands open and pleading as he begs.

“Stop, please! There is nothing to learn from this! Loki’s mind is dark—“

“His mind is twisted!”

“Yes! Loki is unwell. He’s ill of the mind, and Earth will do nothing for him!”

Odin is unmovable. “This punishment is suitable.”

Swathed in magic, Loki still cannot move. Thor’s deep voice blurs in his ears. He sees Odin’s cold stare, feels a final rush of magic, and then the familiar rush that is falling, tumbling through the void.

  Loki’s fall is rough. He plummets, falling for a time; it feels like an eternity has passed before the ground is rushing up to meet him, and Loki’s reunited with the hard earth.

Dust fills his lungs and his eyes, and Loki coughs roughly, attempting to stand on shaking legs like a newborn colt. He feels weak and dizzy, like he’s been hit by Mjölnir. 

The landscape that surrounds him is barren. Brown sand stretches as far as he could see, the only greenery little prickly shrubs. 

Loki picks a direction, and walks like he’s possessed — it is the only thing he can do, now. He has only the clothes on his back, and the ache in his bones.

The sun sets, it grows dark. The sun rises, and it’s bright. One day, two days, three. Loki still hurts, and the ache has grown in his belly and his throat — he’s hungry, and very, very thirsty. It’s a reminder of what Odin has taken from him, and how he’s no longer a god.

Now, Loki is mortal.

It’s late at night when Loki finally finds something. 

It’s only a little bar, but it’s a beacon in the dark night, and to Loki, it is an oasis.  

He pushes hair out of his face, straightens his back, and slips inside. Hundreds of years spent learning how to go unseen come in handy. Staying hidden — this is something he knows how to do. 

Loki slides past drunkards and the distracted barman, and into the back. He seeks out the mini fridge, opens it, and smiles wickedly at the army of water bottles. He steals three, grabs six food bars from the top of the fridge, and leaves out the back, unnoticed. 

Loki leans against the cool brick wall, closing his eyes. It’s quiet, this desert. There is nothing but the distant sound of rough laughter and clinking glasses, the quiet wind, and Loki’s pressing exhaustion.

A man approaches Loki some time later. His arms are roped with muscle and painted with sprawling tattoos. His pants are filthier than Loki’s, and even through his thick beard, Loki can see the man’s smirk, and beady, sober eyes.

“How you doing?” the man says, American accent rough in his throat. 

“You would do well to walk away,” Loki tells him, dismissive.

“Oh, baby, don’t be like that.” The stranger angles a leg forward. He’s broader and fatter than Loki, and he wears his bulkier weight like a blunt force weapon. 

“Leave me be,” Loki instructs.

“But I just got here, and I wouldn't want to leave you all alone… why, anything could happen to you.” The stranger’s pants bulge obscenely, arousal evident. Everything about this stranger disgusts Loki.

Loki warns him, just once more: “I would destroy you.”

The man laughs, and it is not kind. His smile is full of teeth — not in the way that Loki has seen from ladies of the court, or even in the wicked sharpness of his own smiles, but it is still selfish and cruel, nonetheless. The man reeks of perversion.

“Would you, hon’?”

“I’ll cut you to pieces,” Loki promises, calmly. 

“I’d like to see you try.” He’s moves forward to grab Loki, and Loki twists, lunging like a python on his pray, pining the other man still. The stranger, much to Loki’s satisfaction, looks suddenly terrified.

“Do not,” Loki begins, holding the man’s arms behind his back, “touch me.” The stranger’s shoulder is turning red from the pressure, accentuating the large tattoo of a crawling bug on his forearm. 

“Fuck you,” the man spits.

Oh, Loki thinks, I’m going to enjoy teaching this one its lesson.

The next day, Loki treks on. His belly is full of water, and his hands are crusted with blood. He still has not let himself think about the ache Asgard has left in his chest, or let his anger dampen.

An old woman, fragile and gentle in stature, pulls her small car over sometime mid-morning.

The woman sticks her head out of her car’s window, peering at Loki behind the thick rims of her glasses. “Sweetheart?” she asks, tentatively. “Are you alright?" 

Loki squints at her. “I am lightyears away from alright.”

“Oh, hon,” she says, voice soft and pitying. She eyes his attire, the dusty state of his clothes, the caked dirt and blood on his face, the sweat collecting on the tip of his nose — all of it. Sits there, and takes him in, and purses her lips. “Would you like a lift someplace?” 

Loki considers accepting her help, then considers ripping open the door of her car, dragging the woman out by the collar of her horrid pink shirt, and peeling the skin from her face. He would leave her there, alone and dying in the dust, and steal her transport. It’d be far faster than waking.

And it had felt so nice last night, when the man’s blood had bubbled over Loki’s sore hands…

“Sweetheart?” the woman prompts.  

The muggy desert wind tosses her soft orange curls around her face, and Loki is reminded sharply of his mother. He aches for her suddenly, his longing like a raw wound in his side. He has to remind himself that this woman is not Frigga. Not Frigga.

Still, Loki cannot help seeing his mother in the concerned slant of the stranger’s eyes. 

“Leave,” Loki orders. 

She looks so worried, ready to bundle him into her arms, into safety. Loki hates it. 

“Don’t you want—“

 “I want to be left alone.” He stares at her, his eyes steady and focused. He would hurt her, of this he is certain. It’d be so easy. He’d break her, and then step over her mangled corpse and steal her car— “Leave me,” he repeats, forcefully.

 She stares at him, and he stares back. Then she nods meekly, and drives off.

 Part of him is angry at his wasted chance. He could have gotten transport, and out of this forsaken barren land. 

 The other part of him is grateful that she got away safely.

He is beginning to think that maybe — just maybe — Thor was right.

 His mind twists as he walks, and he— nothing around him feels real. Two dimensional. He feels like he’s trapped inside his own skull, and urges to rip his own face open, and free himself. 

 He feels. His mind feels sick. Maybe Loki is diseased.

 Thor would know. Loki had told him everything as a child — how the other children mocked him, how Father scared him, how Loki never felt right. How, sometimes, he hurt for no real reason. How his thoughts scared him sometimes.

 Thor had always been there. Thor’d always comforted him in these times, always came when Loki called.

 Maybe, Loki thinks desperately, his mind throbbing, his feet aching, maybe Thor will come for me.

Loki slips up, and pays the price for it.

 He should’ve seen it coming, but he forgets that he is mortal now, not as strong and no longer invincible.

 He’d noticed the men following him, of course, but he was passing through a small town, and hadn’t thought anything of it.

 He doesn’t even realise the real danger until he’s in a back alleyway, five men blocking his exit. They form a menacing wall of flesh, lips curled into smirks, hands curled into fists. 

 “This is him,” says one, looking to the tallest for approval. “I’d know ‘im anywhere. Swear it.”

 Tallest nods. His eyes, two tiny beads of anger, burn into Loki’s. 

 Loki swallows and shifts, feels the alley’s back wall press against his back. He’s never felt as trapped as he does in that moment. The men seem very large, and Loki feels so very small without his godlike strength, or his magic, or the protection of his older brother. 

 “You the one who cut up Bug?” Tallest asks.

 “Bug?” Loki echoes. He wonders if this is some sort of joke; a jest arranged by the Warriors Three, retribution for Loki’s pranks. 

 “Bug. Our friend. A biker. Slider here says he saw you and him talking, and then you fucking went psycho on him, attacked him like a fucking wild animal. Killed him.”

 Loki thinks about the Biker outside the small bar, under the dim lights. The man with his slimy gaze and threatening stance, and an abundance of tattoos. Bug.

 He itches to tell them the truth, and describe the ways in which Bug had died under Loki’s hand; the sweet snapping sounds of his bones, the sickening bubbling blood. But the men’s muscles bulge under their skin, and Loki knows that it’s not wise to antagonise them.

 His silver tongue feels like lead in his mouth, and for the first time, Loki fumbles with his words. “I don’t— I’m sure you’re mistaken—”

 “Yeah, it’s him,” Slider decides. His face twists, and his chest heaves with rage. “Fuck, fuck. The motherfucker killed Bug… my— my best friend, you sonvabitch—“

 Loki can only flinch back against the brick wall, wishing Heimdall would appear and take him home as Slider rushes forward.  His head is slammed into the cement floor, and the sudden explosion of pain is disorienting.

 As diligent a fighter Loki is, he’s no match for five angry men.

 They do not kill him. The sun rises the next morning, and though he is sore and broken, Loki is still there to see it. He’s not sure if he’s grateful, or if he wishes they’d been merciful and slaughtered him like he had slaughtered their Bug. 

 The day is bright and warm, and Loki spends the long hours curled in on himself, cursing his inadequate mortal body, and waiting for the pain to ebb.

He heals slowly. His skin stitches back together, and the bruises begin to fade. 

 He has no medical supplies, and has to improvise, using strips of fabric from his shirt to stop the flow of blood on reopened wounds. His broken wrist and ribs are possibly the worst. He’d never broken a bone before. Now, he knows it feels like Asgard’s blacksmith is pressing a red-hot iron to him, scorching his flesh whenever Loki moves too quickly.

 He’s too tired, and in far too much pain to search for food or to move when it rains. He can only lay as the days pass by, waiting for his blood to clot and his bones to stitch together. 

 Thor makes no appearance, and Loki curses his optimism. No one is coming. He’s been forsaken, left to rot here, lying in pools of his own cooling blood, trapped in this accursed, fragile body… 

 Oh, Loki thinks, stomach cramping with hunger, rain falling thick and heavy on his body, this was a truly marvellous punishment, Odin. Perhaps you are not the fool I mistook you for.

Loki completely heals, finally. Eats, steals new clothes, cleans his wounds. 

 He decides there is nothing there for him, and makes his way to a city. 

Out of the desert now, his anger is tempering off into something more manageable, though no more sane. 

 This forsaken planet is far too hot. Loki’s body is sweaty; he can feel filth layering his skin. Repulsive. 

 Loki finds a mirror in a gas station bathroom. His face is—

 He can see where his cheeks have begun to hollow out, the darkness in his eyes, the grotesque sores that have sprouted on his lip. He can see it all, and he cannot bare it.

 He smashes the mirror, steals more water and several sandwiches, and leaves. 

 Loki finds the nearest beauty store, and steals several armfuls of things. Then, he finds a vacant house, and sets about washing the dirt from his skin.

 The soaps smell artificial, nothing like the flowery box had promised, and he has to scrub until his skin burns before he begins to feel clean. But he is beginning to feel clean though, and he is grateful for that one luxury. 

 The shampoo and conditioner are especially nice, he will admit. In Asgard, he had always been forced to use oils to slick his hair back. Here, though, they have sweet smelling creams. For once, Loki’s hair does not fall into a jumble of fluffy tangles when free of oil. Instead, it feels thick and silky and soft in a way it never has. Again, Loki is grateful.

 Loki shaves his legs, and brushes his teeth. He paints his nails a dark blue he finds rather fetching, pulls on the clothes he’d stolen that reminded him of his own armour (leather pants, and thick black boots, and a dark coat with annoying brass buttons). He ties his growing hair back into a low ponytail; he thinks he’s outgrown his slicked back princely hairstyle. 

 Loki glances into the mirror, expects to be horrified with his reflection, and then freezes. He— looks rather nice, actually. 

 He smiles, but it comes out crooked and bitter, and makes him look deranged. Loki drops the smile, stares at himself, and hates the dark green of his eyes, the emotion he sees in his face, hates the bitterness that darkens his expression, hates that even the green colour of his irises is a lie. This isn’t him; the real him doesn’t have milky white skin, but skin stained a monstrous blue.

 Loki’s hands form fists by his side. He heaves in a breath, then let’s it out, stares at himself and sees a monster. 

 He breaks the mirror with one punch. Blood drips from his fist, jagged shards of glasses buried deep in his knuckles. 

 Shattered remains of the mirror lay around his feet. Loki can still see his reflection, looking even more twisted and deformed in the cracked, blood splattered shards. 

 Loki is a monster, and no amount of creams, or soaps, or attractive jackets with brass buttons can ever change that.

Loki has killed people. Lots. Thor has, too, along with Odin, and Frigga. Sif. The Warriors Three. They’ve all killed people. 

Loki has begun to kill people off the battlefield, though. He does not care if it’s dishonourable (he cares very little about honour these days). The differences between what is a battlefield and is not are no longer discernible. Everyone is his enemy, and no one is his ally. He’s not safe anywhere. Surely, then, if they are his enemies, he is justified in killing them? 

Why should it matter, anyhow? These people are not worthy even of their own lives. Loki is a rightful king. He could slaughter their children, drink wine out of their babies’ skulls in front of the weeping parents. 

He thinks of tiny skulls heavy with red whine. He images himself drinking deep from goblets of bone, staining his teeth and ignoring the begging of sobbing loved ones. He thinks about how he might laugh, and ignore their cries, and continue to steal their wailing babies out of their shaking arms.

 Loki swallows down that thought. Suddenly, he feels quite sick.

 Late that night when he passes through a food store, intent on stealing something edible, he sees a small child crouched beside her baby brother. He remembers his previous imaginings, looks at the vulnerable curve of her small skull, and feels nauseous. He feels unclean, and something strange like guilt presses on his chest. 

 The small girl spies him hovering by a stack of cans, and grins innocently. She waves and says, “Hiya, sir!”

 Loki’s feet are rooted to the floor. He should— he should go. 

 “Are you a prince?” she asks.

 Loki rears back. Is this child mocking him? The audacity. How dare this tiny mortal imply— 

 “Because you’re super pretty!” 

 Loki breaths out, and forces himself to relax. He reminds himself that barely a dozen people know of his Asgardian origins, and that it’s ludicrous to think stranger might. 

 The child continues, “I like your nails! Wow, you look kinda like this prince out of my favourite movie, he’s so handsome.“ She claps her hands together, and the baby babbles happily beside her, tiny legs waving in the air.

 “I am not any sort of prince you would recognise,” Loki answers, coldly. “Not anymore.”

 The girl’s eyebrows dip at that. “Oh,” she says. “Um. Well. You’re pretty.” Repetitive. Children, even mortal ones, are so dull. “Very pretty. You look like a hero, that’s why I thought you were a prince. You look like the man that would save all the people that are in trouble from the bad guys. ‘Cause you look like a proper superhero!” She thinks for a moment, and then declares, “A prince-superhero!”

 “Kathleen, don’t talk to strangers!” A woman shouts, rushing to her daughter’s side. The girl beams at her mother, and responds, “Sorry, mama. But look, he’s a prince—”

 Loki runs from the aisle before the mother turns to him. He forgets his food, but he doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore. 

 Loki doesn’t let himself reflect upon the encounter, but now, when he thinks of tiny skulls and small bones crunching beneath his feet, he thinks of non-threatening smiles and happy words, and hates himself just a little bit more.

The Midgardians are loud, and they grate on Loki’s nerves like nothing else. Still, it is better than the silence of the desert. Here, in the city, Loki is able to focus on the clatter of sounds rather than the dangerous swirl of his thoughts.

 Through the bustling crowds, he spots a small child curled in on themself, head lowered and shoulders shaking, and an adult standing tall above them. The adult is angry, shouting, and has one hand gripped tight around the child’s arm.

 Loki slinks forward until he can hear their words. 

 “Can’t you do anything right?” the adult is saying. The child lets out a sob, and squirms in their guardian’s grip. “Listen to me! Stop that!” The adult shakes the kid, features twisted angrily. “God— shithead. You’re a fucking disappointment, you hear me? A disappointment.”

 Loki knows what the child must be feeling. His own childhood, full of hands gripping his shoulder tight, holding him in place, and hard eyes glaring down at him. Scorn, disapproval. Feeling unwanted. Loki remembers it all. 

 The child curls in on himself further, attempting to shield himself from his father’s wrath. Loki knows that feeling, too.

 “Excuse me,” Loki interrupts. The man looks up, letting the child go. Loki thanks his coat with the annoying brass buttons, and his washed hair and face for allowing him to look halfway ordinary. Like a normal, functioning member of society.

 “What do you—“ the man starts, defensive. 

 Loki doesn’t let him finish. He grabs him, and hauls him away from prying eyes. 

 The child is left alone in the street, forearm turning a blotchy red from the adult’s grip. He will be better off now, Loki thinks. Better to be alone than trapped with a parent like that.

 “Let me go!” the man demands, struggling. “You can’t— my son, I can’t leave my son—“

 “Do not pretend that you care,” Loki says. 

Loki breaks his neck, and the man goes limp.

The disease in his mind is growing stronger with every day. It is a physical weight on his heart, beginning to infect even the sanest parts of himself.

Thor was definitely right.

Loki’s growing slow. He only just got away the last time he stole, barely ducking out of the grocery store before the owner could rush after him.

It spooked him — Loki’s not used to people being able to catch him.

 He has not attempted theft since, and has not eaten in two days. His stomach growls like a beaten animal, and a headache throbs behind his eyes. He must eat soon. Very soon.

 But his limbs are too sluggish; he will not be able to run from shop keepers in this condition. So where, then, can he find food…?

 A portly stranger wanders past him, hands wrapped around the thick flesh of a burger. The man takes a bite, makes a face and mumbles, “I ordered chicken, not beef.” His wife tutts at him, and replies, “I told you that cafe was stingy.”

 The man just grunts, and glares at his food. 

 “Fucking rip off,” he says. He dumps the burger in a nearby trashcan, and glumly follows his wife, the pair disappearing further down the street leaving the bin, the uneaten burger, and Loki in their wake.

 Loki cannot help but stare at the garbage. That burger had been piled high, layered with tomato and lettuce and juicy slices of meat. 

 His belly grumbles pitifully.

 Loki considers it. He honestly does, thinks deep about it for a long moment, and then feels sick with himself. He’s disgusted at how far he’s fallen.

 But he’s so hungry…

 Loki stands there for a long time, until his legs bring him forward, his hands lift the food from the trash, and he bites deep into the discarded meal. It’s cold, and tastes like stale cigarettes and city dirt. But still, it is food, and to Loki, it’s beautiful.

 God, Loki sickens himself. He’d been a prince once.

 But now, Loki stands homeless in a busy city street, stinking of sweat and filthy back alleyways, tomato juice dribbling down his cheek. This— this is how far he’s fallen.

 (Loki feels achingly, totally human.)

The next time he is hungry, a man approaches him. “How much?”

Loki glares up at him. “For what?”

 The man is eyeing him, hunger in his eyes.

 “A blowjob,” the man says.

 Loki surveys the area quickly, happy only when he sees the man is alone, and stands, swinging his hips, and beckoning the stranger forward. 

 “For you,” Loki tells him, “half price.” 

 He leads the man down the alley, behind the back of a shop, and smiles seductively. 

 “Hell yeah,” the man says lowly.

 Loki slinks forward, letting his lips pout and his eyes flicker, lashes dancing over his cheeks. He doesn’t drop his act until he’s inches from the man, and the stranger’s hands are ghosting over Loki’s hips, his eyes blown wide with arousal, his dick hard against Loki’s leg. 

 “Babe—“

 Loki cuts him off as he pounces, pushing the man off his feet. He claws at the pervert’s eyes, breaking his ribs with his knees, and grips hold on his neck with two firm hands, choking the bastard to death. When the man finally goes still, Loki flips the corpse over, and steals his wallet. 

 That night, he enjoys a hearty dinner of cheese pizza from down the road. 

It starts with a sore throat.

 Loki thinks nothing of it, at first. Drinks some water, and forgets it.

 The next day, his throat feels as though he has spent the night swallowing broken glass, and there’s a deep throbbing in his head.

 The third day — that is the day that Loki knows something is amiss. His limbs move as though he’s underwater, and he aches deep to the bone. It is not fatigue that is causing this — though Loki does feel remarkably tired all of a sudden — but something far more sinister. Loki spends the day curled up in a hallow of an alley, hands pressed to the sudden jackhammering in his head. 

 This is Odin’s doing, Loki is sure. Some extra curse his father has decided to put upon him. Has he not suffered enough?

 By the fifth day, Loki can barely move. Unsuspected rainfall leaves him soaking and cold, though his face feels hot and uncomfortable. City sounds have long since melted into one long blur Loki can not recognise. 

 He wishes himself dead.

 “Hey, buddy?” Someone is shaking him. Loki lets out a pathetic sound; he’s too far gone to care about a stupid thing like pride. “Fuck, you look terrible…”

 A hand presses to his temple, and it is blessedly cool. Loki latches onto it immediately. 

 “Fever, too. Goddamn.”

 Loki lets out another whine when the hand leaves his burning skin. The hand returns immediately, cupping his cheek and rubbing its fingers over Loki’s aching temple. It’s comforting, oddly.

 “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay. I’m here to help.”

 Loki manages to pry his eyes open halfway. He can just make out the blurry face hovering above him. The stranger is male; wrinkled and dark skinned, his greying eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

 It is the most welcoming sight Loki thinks he will ever see, and as he closes his eyes and let’s himself slip back into sleep, he praises all the heavens for this one miracle. 

Loki recalls very little about the next week. He can recall a face crinkled with concern, soft hands pushing sweat-soaked hair out of his face, and constant pain.

 Eight days into this hell, Loki wakes suddenly, still panting from a nightmare, the beginning of a scream curled on his tongue.

 The hands were there immediately, grabbing his flailing hands and murmuring quietly, “You’re okay, you’re safe— shh, there you go. Lay down. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

 The soft whispers chase away visions of Asgardian faces — members of the court, palace guards, his family, all their faces cold and uncaring even as he begged because please, there’s a sickness in his mind, he needs their help — and brought back the forgiving blanket of dreamless sleep.

The fever fades, slowly. 

 For the first time in days, Loki’s thoughts seem somewhat coherent. His body aches and his throat burns, but his head feels less like it’s been stuffed full of wool.

 Loki cannot move, but he can think. The man who’s been with him for over a week sleeps beside him, his legs, tangled in Loki’s, a comforting stabilising weight.

 As he lays on cold concrete, underneath a stranger’s raggedy coat, body still aching from a persevering illness, he’s grateful. So, so grateful. 

The next time he wakes, the man is there, staring down at him with kind eyes. “Hi,” he greets. 

 “Who,” Loki rasps, “are you?“

 “I’m Manuel, Loki. You don’t remember talking to me last night?” Loki shakes his head, no. “You were pretty out of it. You caught a bad flu, and being sick on these streets is pretty dangerous.”

 “Sick?” 

 The man’s smile is kind, understanding. “Very.”

 “Very sick…” Loki thinks about this, considers it. He is still unwell, and the flu forces his thoughts into words. “Sick… in my mind?”

 Manuel starts, looking closely at Loki. “No, the body kind of sick. Germs, and headaches, and stuff.”

 “Oh. Is it…” Loki swallows; his throat is still dry. “Is it possible to become sick in the mind?”

 The other man purses his lip, looking down at his hands. “I’ve been on the street for a long time, met lots of folks. Sicknesses in the mind are not uncommon.

 Manuel studies him. “Why do you ask?”

 “I think I might be…”

 “Mentally ill?”

 “Diseased.”

 Manuel presses a hand to Loki’s side, a firm pressure, grounding Loki. “Kid,” Manuel says, staring deep into Loki’s eyes. “You’re not diseased. Mental illnesses happen to lots of people. That’s fine.”

 Loki’s hands bunch in the jacket draped over his shoulders. He knows, now, that it’s Manuel’s. “You’re not leaving?”

 Manuel chuckles, and he sounds so old. Loki knows he must be centuries older than Manuel, but the other man feels so wise, like he’s taken all of Loki’s worries just by being there. “I’m not leaving.”

 Loki lips curve into a small smile. “Really?”

 “It’s not your fault, Loki. You’re only human, after all.”

Manuel brings him food, and a new jacket (forcing Loki to glumly hand over Manuel’s), and a sense of hope. 

 And Loki forgets that the other man is only human, too.

 “Manuel?” 

 Manuel clears his throat, attempting to smooth out his pained expression. “I’m—ah, I’m fine, Loki.”

 “You look—“

“I said I’m fine!” Manuel snaps.

Loki nods, knows better than to argue with angry men, and tries not to think about Manuel’s hacking coughs, and the fear that lingers in the old man’s eyes.

Loki wakes up to a cold weight against his back, where Manuel would usually be snoozing. But that morning, when he stretches, yawns, and rolls over, he’s faced with sightless open eyes.

 “Manuel?” Loki leaps to attention, shaking the man gently, prodding at his face, checking him over. “Manuel!”

 Manuel’s not breathing. His eyes are growing cloudy. Unblinking. Lifeless.

 No.

 “Manuel!” There’s a lump in his throat, and his whole body burns from the pain. He— gods, his heart, it hurts. 

 Loki stumbles away from the corpse. His shaking hands grab at his hair, pulling at the fistfuls, hoping for the pain to ground him. It doesn’t.

 He runs from the alley, bolting down one street, then another, and another, until he doesn’t recognise the city area he’s in, and his lungs burn.

 Loki collapses on a bench, curls in on himself, and chokes on his panicked, desperate sobs.

  Manuel’s gone. Dead.

 Loki watches strangers pass him for hours. He feels numb. His world feels as though its collapsed beneath him, and he can barely breath through the sadness choking him and the grief that sits in his stomach, weighing him down. 

 He watches hundreds of people continue on with their petty lives and petty concerns, giving no thought for Manuel, or the homeless, or the pain that’s crushing Loki. They have no idea.

 They don’t care, and they don’t miss Manuel. No one does. No one but Loki.

 Loki wonders if anyone would miss him if he were to die. 

 He doubts it.

His nightmares return. 

 This time, when Loki watches up panting, Manuel is not there to pat his hair, or whisper words of comfort, and to remind him that everything will be okay.

When Loki and Thor were children, they would sit on Loki’s balcony late at night, sprawled beside each other on their backs. They’d watch the night sky together; Loki always loved the endless sprawl of stars.

  But Loki is no longer in Asgard. 

 Here, the light pollution is so thick it steals the galaxies out of the sky. When Loki lays back — the damp concrete a stark contrast to the marble of Asgard’s palace balconies — blackness stares back at him.

 Of course. There are no stars here.

“Sir, you can’t sit there.”

 The police officer looks bored. She looks straight through him, seeing only another homeless. Not a person.

 “Why?”

 “Because you’re loitering.” She flicks a lazy finger at the sign above them that reads: no loitering. “You’re gonna have to move.”

 “No.”

 “Sir—“

 Loki grabs her uniform shirt with one hand, and throws himself at her, tumbling the both of them backwards. “I said,” Loki repeats, one hand at her throat, the other balling into a fist, “no.”

 Afterwards, Loki smiles for the first time in over a week. 

 He runs his tongue over his teeth, savouring the copper taste of blood that collects there (where he’d bitten at the gash in her cheek, ignored her muffled screams, and enjoyed the familiarity of blood). It tastes like — violence. Loki grins wider, and knows his teeth must be stained red. Good. 

 That night, he doesn’t think about Manuel, or Thor’s lack of presence. He thinks only of dying screams, torn flesh, and the messy run of blood. 

 Finally, he has found a way to sleep without waking up screaming.

 Manuel has been dead for just over a month, and Loki has killed half a dozen people with his bare hands. He may no longer have his godlike strength, or a vast array of weapons, but he has centuries of experience, and a thirst for violence that cannot be quenched.

 Still, this form of killing lacks sophistication, and Loki is tired of picking bloody flesh from underneath his fingernails. 

 He’d tested other weapons, but so far none had quite sufficed. The bat he’d used last week was adequate, but he doesn’t like the brunt strength.

 Loki prefers thick rushes of clean blood, the kind he doesn’t get when he uses his bare hands. 

 Blood is easily his favourite part of killing. Red slipping through his fingers as he presses against gaping wounds, pooling in the hollow of his throat as it drips down his neck…

 It’s beautiful. Loki revels in it. Blood feels cleansing, refreshing.

 Years go, in the silence of his chambers in Asgard, Loki would press knives against the soft skin of his thigh, just to watch the way the blade would kiss his flesh, and blood would bubble out to greet him. Even then, it was beautiful. 

 Clearly, knives are the only suitable weapon. 

 The set Loki steals is nothing like Asgardian blades, but they are still a comforting and familiar weight in his hands. 

 Yes, he thinks, these will do nicely. 

A man barges past Loki, hitting his shoulder as he barrels past despite the wide space of the alley. “Watch it, pal,” the man grumbles.

 Loki’s tongue flicks out to wet his cracked lips, and he holds the blade tight in his grip, fingers itching against the handle. “Wait,” Loki says.

 The man turns away to hurry off, and Loki lunges after him, tackling his prey to the hard concrete ground.

 Mortal pinned beneath him, Loki let’s his madness slip free. What ensures is violent and slow, and there is so much blood. The man had managed to strike Loki against the temple in self defence, but Loki has the upper hand, and there is nothing the man can do to save himself. Loki grins even as blood drips down his face, and he knows his smile must be twisted and red.

 The man begs as Loki cuts. “I have a family— my family—“ 

 “I do not care,” Loki tells him. One of his hand cups the mortal’s face, but the action is not to comfort the dying stranger. Loki feels a thick curl of satisfaction settle into his stomach as his blade slices the man’s cheek, and blood coats his fingers.

 He has to cut out the man’s tongue to stop his screams, lest they draw attention to them. The man gurgles on blood, limbs spasming widely. He dies with panic on his face, and one of Loki’s hands curled around his heart.

 (Loki doesn't feel human anymore.)

Fuck, Loki’s nightmares have returned.

 They’re no longer of Asgard or Manuel, but they’re no less terrifying. Now, Loki dreams about his victims. Life draining from their eyes, their last breath, their screams as they beg. He can’t forget.

 Sometimes, it’s Thor that Loki dreams of pinning down and slicing open. His blue eyes wide with betrayal, teeth clenched through the agony. In his dreams, Loki never gives Thor a fast death, or gives into his brother’s cries for mercy; he always dies screaming.

His disease get’s worse.

 Some days, it feels as though Loki is swathed in a thick haze of fog, and there is wall between him and everything else. On those days, whenever someone bumps into him in a crowd, Loki feels as though the contact is a thousand miles away. 

 It is so frustrating. His head has been stuffed full of cotton wool; he can’t make sense of his thoughts.Loki doesn’t know how to put this feeling into words.

 On these days, when nothing feels real, Loki thinks about the hollows that must lie between his bones. He thinks about scooping out his insides until there is only his ribcage left, and the emptiness he feels is visible for all to see.

 He stumbles around the city in this fog, thinking about the ways in which he could mutilate his body to reflect the way he feels inside. 

 Some days, though, he cannot even muster the energy to stand. On those days, he lays in back alleys, not moving for hours, days, and let’s stray dogs sniff at him and piss on his sprawled legs, and waits for the feeling to lift.

He hates this, he hates it, he hates it.

 He’s tired and hurt, and he’s sick of feeling sick, like he’s injured inside, like there’s someone dancing on his broken leg, sticking their fingers into the wound and pulling out pieces of broken bone. Loki is so sick of hurting. 

 He’s not well.

 I’m ill, he thinks. I’m diseased.

 Thor was so, so right.

Thor’s in the store.

 No— no, it’s a television. A Midgardian invention. Loki has seen them before.

 Thor is on the screen, his arms outstretched welcomingly towards the crowd, as majestic as ever with his crimson cape and toothy grin. He looks happy, healthy, and wholly unconcerned. 

 Loki hates him. This rage is sudden and consuming, and Loki cannot do anything but bare his teeth against it, curl his hands into fists, and think about digging his fingers into Thor’s blue eyes and blinding that goddamn motherfucker.

 He’s been here. Thor has been on Midgard all along. Loki has suffered and bled and had to weather the storm inside him for months, and Thor has been here, lapping up the attention of the worshipping locals. Thor has not looked for him. Thor does not care about Loki.

 Thor does not care. He does not care. 

 Loki is really, truly alone.

 On screen, Thor wraps an arm around Stark and Barton, smiles, and says, “I am proud to be here with my teammates, my friends. My loyal companions—“

 Loyalty. As if Thor knows anything of loyalty. 

 Loki let’s out a breath. He might’ve been unwilling to accept it before, but now he has proof of his ex-brother’s apathy. Perhaps now, Loki can finally let go of past doubts, and the hopes that his big brother will come and rescue him. 

 A store assistant approaches him, looking concerned. Loki takes another breath, lets his hands unbunch, and moves away before the woman reaches him. He cannot afford to loose his temper here. He slips out of the store and into the awaiting street, a ball of rage curled tight in his stomach.

 The next few days snake by. Loki does not kill a single soul that week, but his thighs are dotted with bruises, the blotches of colour evidence of where Loki had grabbed fistfuls of his flesh, thought about his traitorous family, and squeezed tightly until he felt familiar, comforting pain.

The next time he sees his brother, it’s on the cover of a book.

 Thor looks noble and proud, standing straight and solemn. His cape blows behind him, and warm light makes his skin shine and his golden hair gleam like a halo, like a crown.

 The text above proclaims ‘Thor: prince and protector’ in bold lettering.

 Loki hates it, immediately. He wants to tear the glossy paper to pieces. 

 Instead, he steals the magazine, and that night, he pours over it outside a nightclub. The neon light seeping from the place provides a dim reading light.

 Thor has taken up residence in Stark Tower among fellow Avengers, the article inside reads. Witnesses have spotted the demi-god sampling pastries from local cafes, attending gallerias and charity balls with fellow friends, and dining in high class. The superhero had became world famous after the devastating battle of New York whereupon he saved many from the dangerous, psychopathic madman—“

 Loki rips the page out of the book, crumples it in his hands, and throws it as far as he can. The paper crumples to the ground less than a sad foot away.

 Loki has suffered the past few months, and clearly Thor has not. Did his brother not have his own guilt? Has Thor not committed his own sins?

 When Thor was banished, his journey was certainly not this painful, of this Loki is sure. And yet, Thor had attempted to destroy a foreign realm, had killed innocents in their own land — just as Loki had. Where’s Loki’s golden throne, then? Where are the people ready to welcome him home?

 The city is still alive around him; it stinks of car exhaust, rain, and the faint aroma of piss. The air sits cold and bitter in his lungs, but Loki feels nothing, only constant, consuming rage.

Loki steals the next magazine with Thor on the cover, and reads it thoroughly.

 The content is more or less the same, but this time, Loki cools his temper and does not destroy it. He scours the page until he finds what he has been searching for: Thor's location.

 ‘After moving to New York last summer, Thor continues to enjoy the city and its lifestyle—‘

 New York. Thor is in New York.

 Loki gathers the thin jacket around him — the comforting smell of Manuel has long since faded, but still, Loki takes comfort in the thing — and stands, leaving the magazine in a crumpled pile by his feet.

 That's that then.  Loki must find a way to New York.

Loki hitchhikes across the state, finding his way to New York. It takes a week and a half, and by the end of it, Loki’s feet hurt from walking, and he has blunted one of his knives. Still, it is worth it.

 New York is packed full of people. It is filthy, and the people here are selfish and preoccupied. Loki knows there will be no trusting anyone in this city; there are no Manuels here. 

 Loki thinks New York is abundantly human — imperfect and emotional to its very core. And still, the city reminds him so deeply of Asgard; the cold metal buildings that rise tall and look sleek and pride in the sky, the metal glinting in the sunlight, the people who think themselves above Loki — all indicative of Asgard. 

 Loki looks up at the skyscrapers, thinks of Asgard’s tall spires and large housings, and aches deep in his heart.

 Of course, Loki thinks. Of course Thor would come here.

The first time Loki sees Thor in the flesh since the night of his banishment, he’s surrounded by a group of Midgardians. The prince is taking photos, shaking hands, greeting his adoring fans. 

 Loki stands at a distance, watching for a time, until he cannot stomach the anger churning in his gut, and slinks back down the street. 

 Thor, preoccupied with the crowd, doesn’t even notice.

A supervillian attack is inevitable in New York, so when Loki jumps awake to sounds of screaming and distant explosions, he is not frightened. Instead, he feels alive with opportunity. Today— today is the day.

 The Doom Bots zooming down the street do not bother him; he is still a skilled fighter, and he has his knives at the ready.

 Loki follows them to the middle of the city, taking out the ones that lunge at him, and dodging any heroes or police that attempt to help him.

 He finds Doctor Doom in the middle of it all. The super villain stands proudly in the battlefield, seemingly calm in the midst of the chaos, cement cracked around him, buildings half crumbled and debris still on fire.

 Once he gets close, Loki gathers his strength, and declares himself: “I am Loki, and I have come to align myself with you.”

 Doom stops, turns, stares. Loki straightens his shoulders, and stands tall.

 Doom laughs.

 “What?” the Doctor asks, disbelief colouring his voice. His smile is cutting as he scrutinises Loki,  taking in his grimy state. Loki does not care; he has long since lost his vanity to his madness.

 “An alliance,” Loki says, again. “Between you and I.”

 “Why the hell would I do that?” Doom shakes his head, laughter bubbling from behind his metal mask. “You’re not a supervillian, you’re a joke.” 

 “I’m superior to any you’ve faced before,” Loki defends. 

 Doom scoffs. “You’re a washed-up whack-job, don’t fool yourself.” 

 Loki straightens, shoulders slipping into the proper royal stance he was taught as a child. “I am a god, and I will burn Midgard to the ground, and slay whatever pitiful things remain crouched in the aches. Anyone would beg to be by my side.”

 “God… you’re fucking crazy.”

 “I,” Loki repeats, “am a god.”

 “Oh, go away, would you? I have a city to destroy and Avengers to defeat. Don’t you have an alley to squat in, or something?”

 “A god,” Loki mutters to himself. How dare Doom. How dare he. 

 He draws a blade from where it is tucked inside his boot, and slinks forward.

 “You are not worthy to even be in my presence, you insolent—“ 

 “Hey now—“ Doom starts, putting his hands up in defence. Loki advances, lip curled in a feral snarl, and—

 Lightening strikes between them, the air crackling with electricity. Loki freezes, looks up, and sees his brother hovering in the sky, Mjoinir held high above his head.

 “Fuck,” Doom says.

 Thor advances, Iron Man swift on his tail. Last time the heroes had advanced at him, Loki hadn’t felt this helpless. 

 He scuttles away, shoving his face into the folds of his hoodie, hiding it from view. 

 He hears the clash of metal, erupting shouts, and Stark making cocky quips. The sound of repulsers firing echoes through the street, and Loki flinches back and falls to his knees, hands raised over his head. His heart beats frantically in his chest, his throat constricting. Loki does not understand; he is used to battle, but now, anxiety wells in his chest, and he finds it hard to breath. 

 He struggles to draw breath, feels like he’s choking, his heart hammering, fuck, he can’t breath—

 A panic attack in the middle of battle. Loki should be ashamed of himself.

 When Loki’s eyes squint open, his breath still shallow and uneven, Doom is sprawled unconscious along the road. Iron Man leers down at the Doctor, faceplate flipped up. 

 “And that,” Stark says, hands on his hips, “is why you shouldn’t mess with New York on Thursday nights.”

 Thor nods by Stark’s side. “Aye, all should take care not to meddle with our precious movie nights.” 

 Thor’s voice is unchanged, even after so long. Deep and rough, just like Loki remembers.

 To have Thor so close after so long, feels— it feels as though Loki is the one that has been struck by Mjionir.

 “I’m taking this guy to SHIELD,” Stark says. He grabs Doom by the forearms, and jumps into the air, leaving Thor behind.

 Loki feels like he’s shaking apart.

 “Hey.” A hand brushes against Loki’s upper back, and he starts horrifically, flinching away and curling further in on himself, his heart leaping painfully. “Woah, hey! It’s okay, man, the evil douchelord’s been taken out. Danger’s passed.”

 Loki peaks at the other man behind his sprawled hands, sees straw coloured hair and a friendly smile and a bundle of arrows slung over one shoulder.

 “Clint?” Thor says loudly. “Is the civilian well?”

 Clint shouts back — “he’s not injured, at least” — and Loki leaps up, and sprints back down the street as though death Himself is nipping at his heels. His hands are still thrown over his head and his hoodie is pulled up, and Loki prays they didn’t recognise him.

 He gets as far away from that street as possible. He collapses when he finds a small park, hidden inside a patch of bush, one hand against his chest as he tries to regain his breath.

 It’s silent. Loki waits all day, ears strained, ready to here an avenger approaching.

 Thankfully, no one comes after him.

Loki doesn’t think about looking for allies again. He doubts anyone else would react differently than Doom.

 He contemplates taking his knives to Stark’s tower, and driving them into Thor’s heart himself, but he remembers his panic attack, and the way he’d felt frozen to the pavement at the sight of the Asgardian. 

 Days pass. Loki sits, alone. Thinking. 

 He has no plan.

He feels empty. Totally, wholly empty. 

 His heart feels like lead in his chest, and his stomach has turned into snakes, writhing inside him and tying his insides into knots. He hurts, but it is barely noticeable under the numbness.

 He doesn’t get up to find food or shelter, only drinking sparingly from the water bottle he refilled in a park bathroom.

 He sits, sleeps. He does not have the motivation to do anything more.

 Loki lets out a bitter huff of laughter; Odin was right. Compared to this, death would have been merciful.

(present)

Loki just wants to be left alone. He wants them to go away, but he knows they will not. Fucking do-gooders.

 Banner’s hands run along Loki’s limbs, up his torso, over the base of his skull. “Too thin,” he murmurs to himself as he examines Loki with a Doctor’s eye. “Far too thin…”

 “Injured?” Rogers asks. 

 “Malnourished, and I think he has a few bones that haven’t healed right, but, no. Nothing serious.”

 Rogers lets out a breath of relief, and shuffles, stretching out his own hands to grab at Loki, scooping him into the Captain’s arms like he is but a babe.

 Loki sets his teeth. He hates this treatment. This fake caring. “Let me go.”

 “No can do,” Rogers says, steering them toward the cherry red car that sits upon the curb. Bruce climbs into the front, and Loki knows Rogers intends to put him in the back.

 He considers fighting, but he lacks the strength. Instead, when Steve pushes him gently into the back seat, he shuffles out of the Captain’s arms, slides across the seat, and jiggles the door’s handle.

 The doors are locked. Of course. 

 Loki settles back, breathes out a soft sigh, and lets them take him away.

This isn’t Loki’s first time seeing the inside of Stark Tower, but it is his first time seeing the tower in one piece and not partially destroyed by a platoon of invading aliens.

 The tower reminds him startlingly of Asgardian’s royal hall, with its shiny floors, and pristine state, and drones of people staring at him. 

 Loki’s marched up through the lobby. Rogers’ hands are gripped tight on his forearm, steering him into the elevator, Banner at their heels.

 The elevator ride upwards is awkward, to say the least. The silence is deafening.

 The elevator dings upon arrival, and the doors open to reveal homely living quarters — a living room with a large L shaped lounge, a love seat, and a small army of beanbags facing the huge flat screen television.  A long dining table faces the window, with a corridor extending off to one side, and an open kitchen off to the other.

 “Guys! Just in time!” a voice calls out, shouting to be heard over the distant sounds of food frying, and water boiling. A head pops out from the kitchen, hair messy and grin lopsided. Barton. “I made— what the fuck?”

 “Clint,” Banner says. “Can you call Thor?”

 Clint skitters away from the wall. His bright pink apron, floral patterned and decorated with ruffled lace, shifts as he moves. “No, seriously. What the actual fuck is that fucker doing here?”

 “We don’t know yet,” Rogers tells him. “Call Thor.”

 Barton’s eyes are wide, focused on Loki, his hands bunched in his apron, his expression flickering between anxiety and hate.

 Loki smiles with lips twisted, and says, voice slick, “hello, Barton.”

 Barton is no longer grinning.

 “C’mon,” Rogers orders roughly. His grip tightens, and he hauls Loki away, down the corridor and away from the archer. 

 Loki’s thrown into room with a bed — something he has not seen in so long— no windows, and a dresser. The room is better than anywhere Loki has stayed in a long, long time.

 “Stay here,” Rogers tells him, and then leaves, the door clicking as it locks behind him.

He feels like he’s sleeping on a cloud.

 The bed is so soft, and Loki is so tired, it was not long before his eyes closed, and he began to doze, and now, drifting between states of consciousness, Loki feels — peaceful.

 With a resounding crash, the door slams open, Thor barges in, his large frame monopolising the space. 

“Brother—!” Thor is panting, as though he ran all the way there. His eyes scan Loki, desperate, looking so relieved. 

 He rushes across the room, large legs eating up the space between him. One hand ghosts along the top of Loki’s head, amazed at Loki’s presence, and the other clasping tight around Loki’s wrist. “Brother.” 

“…Thor?”

 “Yes.” Thor offers a watery smile. “Yes, tis I, Loki.”

 “Thor…”

 As Thor searches Loki with his gaze, his eyes bunch up with pain, little crinkles forming in his brow. “How did this happen?”

 Loki sighs, and tells him, “Midgard is not kind. Not to me.”

  “I—“ Thor shakes his head, and buries his face into Loki’s shoulder, mindless of the stink that must cling to Loki’s shirt. He doesn’t remember the last time he washed them.

 Thor’s hair is as golden as ever, Loki notes. It has grown longer, though, and there are new braids nestled along the crown of his brother’s head.

 It has been over a year, of course. Things change. Loki himself is an example of that.

 “Father forbid me from looking for you,” Thor says, voice muffled by Loki’s shoulder. “I tried, at first, but he did something to you— I had no way of tracing you without your magic to mark your location…”

 Thor raises his head, and catches Loki’s eyes, his own honest and wet. “I am sorry,” he continues. “I truly am. Loki, will you forgive us?” 

 Loki shakes his brother off, balls his hands into fists, and firmly does not say anything.

Thor disappears after a long, awkward reunion. Loki had thought he would be thankful to see the blond; he was wrong.

 He appears the next day, as open and honest as he was before. 

 “Loki,” Thor says, voice rough but soft. “I’m sorry about all that has happened. I spoke with Father, and he’s willing to accept you into Asgard once more. You can return, brother. You can return home.”

 Loki, face cold, voice silent, extends a hand, and flips Thor off. 

 On the streets, Loki had seen the gesture enough times to know exactly what it meant. Midgardians were a crude, primitive people, but they certainly knew how to offend.

 Thor looks shocked; Loki had never been an especially vulgar child, and he suspects Thor had not expected him to have changed so radically. “Brother!”

 “Fuck you,” Loki says. He turns and presents Thor with his back, rod rim straight, arms crossed over his chest.

 “Brother…” Thor says again. 

 The anger Loki feels is comforting, better than the numbness that once consumed him. This red-hot rage that races through his veins — it motivates him.

 But as grateful as Loki is, he’s still fucking infuriated with all of Asgard. 

 They left him here. They left him here on this forsaken planet, and now they wish for him to forgive them? Return home as though nothing happened? Surely, this is a joke.

 This was their fault! Their’s!

 Fuck, Loki is going to destroy those bastards. Hunt them down, and stab them, twist knives deep into their bellies and watch the light fade from their eyes.

 (And maybe then, when every last fucker was dead and gone, Loki could finally take the knife to himself, and follow where Manuel had gone.)

Thor doesn’t leave his brother’s side that night; he sleeps on the floor, curled up at the foot of Loki’s bed. 

 Loki ignores him.

The next morning, Rogers delivers two plates piled high with eggs, bacons, fried tomatoes, sausages, hash browns — Loki’s stomach aches; he hasn’t eaten in so long — and sets one down next to a sleepy Thor. 

 “Thank you,” Thor says, happily and without surprise. This mustn’t be the first time an avenger has brought Thor a cooked meal, or even the second, or the third. The only person who’s brought Loki food in last few years was Manuel, and even that was rummaged from the trash.

 Rogers shifts his gaze to Loki, and smiles, hesitant but kind. “Hungry?” He raises the second plate up. “I brought you breakfast.”

 Loki starts, shifting up from his crouch against the bed’s headboard. “You did what?”

 “Breakfast,” Rogers repeats. “For you and Thor.”

 “It’s nice, brother!” Thor says, mouth full, a dollop of ketchup dribbling down his chin. “Superb!”

 “No, thank you.”

 Rogers frowns. “You sure? You must be hungry.”

 Loki sniffs, turning his face away from the Captain, and ignoring the insistent rumbling in his belly. “Positive.”

 Rogers leaves the plate on the bedside table, reminds him the food is his if he wants it, and disappears back into the corridor. Loki is sure that the door is locked, and at least two avengers are armed in the living room.

 “You are so thin,” Thor says softly. “You were always skinny, but now you look… Loki, you look starved.”

 Loki digs his hands into the tops of his knees to hold back his anger, stares resolutely at the blanketed mattress, and says, “And you, Thor, look as well and healthy as ever.”

 They offer him two more meals that day, and again, Loki refuses them both. The next day, food is cooked, delivered, and again refused.

 By now, his stomach has turned in on itself, ready to devour his own flesh. Loki knows pain and hunger, and how to deal with both. His pride is all he has now, and he cannot afford to risk it.

 The fourth day inside his soft prison, Romanoff is the one delivering the food. She doesn’t say anything, just leaves his meal on the side table, collecting yesterday’s cold, uneaten meal. Loki ignores Thor’s pleading gaze, and the assassin’s quite assessment — she poses the most danger to Loki; she is a fellow trickster, after all, and she can read him best — and pretends his hunger does not feel like knives stabbing his innards.

 Natasha pulls Thor out of the room after a pause, mentioning something about a shower, and clean clothes, and time away from stubborn little siblings.

 The aroma of the meal they left behind — large chicken drumsticks, and roasted vegetables, and a large helping of mashed potatoes, next to a tall glass of water, and a bowl of Midgardian fruits — wafts over to him. Loki ignores it.

 An hour passes. Two hours. Thor doesn’t come back. By the third hour, Loki feels dizzy with hunger. 

 The food is still good, he supposes. Cold, but still fresh. There is no one here to see if he gives in, and eats. And he is so hungry…

 He gives in, and eats.

 The meal is the best Loki has had in months. Years. He doesn’t use the cutlery they provided, instead uses his hands to scoop up the food, eating desperately like a rabid animal, and drinking messily from the large glass of water. Water soaks his shirt, and his chin and hands are stained and sticky with — oranges, strawberries, mangoes, so sweet — fruit juice. 

 He licks the plate clean when he’s finished. He feels so full, stuffed to the point of breaking. Perhaps he should have eaten slower.

 Loki throws up down his front. 

 He heaves, chokes on bile, turns and throws up again.

 Eating such a rich meal so quickly, after so much time going without… Loki should have known better.

 He closes his eyes, breaths deep, and feels hatred rocket through him at the sour, bitter stink of vomit.

 Thor returns, and flails at the pathetic sight of Loki sitting in his own mess, still queasy and weak.

 “You ate,” Thor says. “Loki— by the gods, are you alright?”

 “May I wash?” Loki asks. He acts as cold and detached as ever, but inside, he burns with embarrassment, and residual anger. He’s humiliated.

 Thor fetches the key for the side bathroom and a pair of soft flannel pyjamas for Loki to change into. Loki does not thank him. He refuses to be grateful.

 “It’s alright,” Thor offers. “Tis not your fault, Loki.”

 Loki snatches the clothes from his hands, and closes the bathroom door in Thor’s falling face.

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

 Banner looks over in surprise. It is he that has been tasked with feeding Loki next. “I don’t know?”

 “Forever?”

 “I doubt it.”

 Loki’s hands curl into tight fists; he itches to leave, get out into the large sprawling city and shove his knife into someone’s gut. “You should have just killed me.”

 “Perhaps,” Banner says, and Loki is glad that the man does not lie to him, “but we like to give everyone second chances. Even maniacal supervillians.”

 Loki huffs a contemptuous laugh. He’s not the kind to appreciate such trivialities as second chances. “Do not lie to me.”

 “I’m not.” Banner locks eyes with him for the barest of moment, just enough time for Loki to see the concern and honesty sitting behind the Doctor’s wire-rimmed glasses. “I wasn’t a good person, either. I was given a second chance, and I became an avenger. Maybe… maybe we could do the same for you.”

 Ha. Loki, an avenger? A good guy. That’s almost laughable.

 Loki quiets this thought, and schools his expression into one of concern and open apprehension. “…Truly?”

 Banner offers him a smile. “Of course.”

 When Banner exits, the door clicking shut behind him, Loki grins to the empty room, hopeful anticipation welling in his chest. 

 Thor always did have foolish friends.

When the next meal that is delivered to him— this time in the form of a watery soup with chopped vegetables, something more suited for Loki’s starved stomach — Loki asks to talk with Rogers and Thor.

 The duo come at his request, and Loki sits on the bed, facing them, looking contrite. 

 “I am sorry for the mess I caused yesterday,” Loki begins.

 “It’s not your fault,” Rogers says. “We should’ve known better.”

 “Aye,” Thor agrees. “We were too worried about your thinness to see that we could have harmed you by feeding you so much. We only wish to care for you, after all.”

 Loki shifts, casts his eyes down as if he is shy. “I am beginning to see that.”

 Thor beams, and Loki gifts him with a small, hesitant smile in return.

Loki apologises to Barton next. The archer scoffs and tells him to shove it, but Thor seems grateful for the attempt.

 He converses for long hours with Banner and Stark about the differences between magic and science, and even manages to coax a laugh from the scientist, and incite excited babbling from the billionaire when they drift further into the topic of engineering.  

 He smiles openly at Rogers, and does not snarl when Thor pats his hair and comments on its length. When Thor sleeps the night in his room, Loki gifts him with half his pillows and blankets, and thanks him for his company.

 He does not dare attempt to converse with Romanoff. Even Loki knows his limits.

It’s month into his stay, when Thor brings up the discussion of Loki’s freedom, and debates letting his sibling leave his room with the other avengers. Loki does not know how that discussion plays out, but he does know that after a week of consideration, his door unlocks, and Loki is let free to wonder around the floor with Thor.

 Loki acts grateful. He thanks them, agrees to be chaperoned around, and carefully avoids direct contact with Romanoff.

 He waits another long, painful month before he attempt to steal anything.

 (He has waited almost two years for his, he can wait a little bit longer).

6 months into his stay, Thor asks him about his magic. 

 Loki’s eyes itch, and he lets them grow wet. 

 “I miss it,” he confesses. “So much. Even to this day, it feels as though one of my limbs has been severed, and the wound is still open and bleeding.” 

 “Loki… You are repentant. You should not be forced to continue to suffer through this.”

 Loki looks up at his brother, eyes big and hopeful. “You… You think I should have my magic?”

 “I do.” Thor reaches out and grabs Loki’s wrist, and Loki allows the contact. “I will do all I can to make sure it returns to you.

 “Soon?”

 “Soon.

 “I thank you, brother,” Loki murmurs, “but I ask that you do not tell the others. I… I do not think they have forgiven me. Or even if they like me.”

 Thor draws him into a strong hug, and when he pulls back, hands still resting gently on Loki’s shoulders, he looks like the brother Loki remembers from his childhood.

 “I promise, Loki.”

 Thor leaves for Asgard the next day, to talk with Odin. He comes to Loki beforehand, and asks him to return home with him. Loki acts shy, pretends he is still afraid of facing the All-father, and politely refuses.

Two days pass, and the anxiety within Loki grows with every moment. Perhaps Odin is not so ready to believe Thor’s word. 

 He is laying stretched out on his bed when it hits, and Loki knows his plan has come to fruition. At first, it is but a small tingle starting in his fingers and ghosting down his hand. Then hits a wave, like a surge of electricity, that races up his bones and deep into his core. It feels like power, like strength. Like returning home after a long time away.

 His magic has returned. 

 Loki leaps of the bed, lightening quick.

 He flicks his fingers and his magic curls at his command. A bright green flame jumps to life in his palm, dancing and crackling with magic, warm and comforting on his skin.

 Yes. Yes!

 Loki rips the door of its hinges — yes, his strength is back! — and sprints down the hall, ignoring the shouts from the heroes in the kitchen, and attempts to find an exit. He bolts towards the elevator, but a heavy weight tackles him to the ground before he reaches it.

 Cuffs settle around his wrist, and Loki snarls.

 “Calm down!” Rogers orders.

 Loki bucks the Captain off, snapping the metal cuffs in half with his strength, and grins down at Rogers. He leaps over the plush couch before the avenger can find his feet or call his allies, and races down the stairs, heart in his throat, blood pumping with adrenaline. 

 A battle is coming, Loki can tell. A proper one, with real weapons and guns and opponents of considerable strength. His magic courses through his veins, sitting just below his skin, and Loki breaths in happily; he’s in the midst of a potential battle, his enemy chasing him down the stairs, and yet, there is no sign of panic attack. Loki feels in control. Calm.

 “Hey, dickwad!” Stark’s voice shouts over the PA, obnoxious and grating as ever, as Loki bolts down the stairwell. “Stop—“ 

 Loki flicks his wrist, a small easy motion, and the PA shuts off. Oh, how Loki has missed his magic.

 He’s still weak from his time on the streets, but the adrenaline and strength in his limbs push him forward. He sprints through the lobby, pushing mortals out of his way and sending others screaming in fear, and crashes through the outside doors, out into the street, and into the crowd.

 It takes him barely a minute to cloak himself in an illusion, making himself look young and inconspicuous. He spent so long on these streets, he knows how to walk them unseen.

 Rogers, shield in hand, crashes into the street after him. Iron Man follows, landing and cooling his jets, looking around frantically.

 “Where’d he go?”

 “I have no idea,” Steve pants, scanning the street. Loki pulls his hoodie down further, and lets his body relax on the public bench.

 “We had one job!” Stark shouts. “One job! And we managed to fuck that up!”

 “You were watching him!”

 Stark stabs a finger at him. “You were supposed to be watching him.”

 “No— you know, forget it. Get the others. We need to find him.”

 “Got it, boss.” Stark snaps a salute and takes off. The pedestrians around them watch them with curiosity. Apprehension ripples through the onlookers when the Captain steadies his shield and himself, readying for a sudden attack.

 Loki watches from a distance, sitting, waiting. 

 Stark flies back with Romanoff, Barton, and pre-transformation Banner, complete with a lab coat and a concerned expression. Perfect. 

 Loki leaps up into the air, and changes his illusion into an old, familiar one; his slicked back hair, his hard gold armour, a wicked smirk, his feet clad with the Iron Man boots he’d stolen. He holds one of Roger’s Midgardian guns in his hand, elongated and powered up from his magic.

 “Guys—!” Barton shouts.

 Loki fires, and the bullet explodes on impact. Banner is knocked out, Romanoff barely ducking out of the way.

 “You motherfucker!” Stark yells. “We thought we could trust you!”

 Loki laughs, and climbs higher in the sky. A dozen flying duplicates materialise by his side (he knows he must end this soon; his power is still weak, and he will not be able to sustain this for long).

 All of the false doubles are equipped with their own guns and boots, and they fly around, aiming and laughing and causing fake, flashy explosions amongst the screaming crowd.

 In the chaos, he manages to discreetly take down Barton and Romanoff, and deal serious damage to Stark’s suit. Rogers is shot in the leg, and then in the forearm, and barely manages to avoid an explosion that leaves him winded and with broken ribs. He was too busy checking over fellow teammates, the sentimental fool.

 The illusions flicker, and die. Loki rises from their dying light, victorious above the pathetic wounded forms of the avengers.

 The cement is littered with the bodies of the dead, those that got caught in the crossfire. At least a dozen innocent are dead, their corpses growing cold in the middle of a battlefield. 

 Joy erupts inside him, and thrilled laughter bubbles from his lips. The only regret he has, is his failure in killing any avengers.

 “He’s definitely back, then,” Stark hisses at Rogers. His suit whines pitifully, trying and failing to gather enough power to fire at Loki.

 “Yeah…” Rogers eyes focus on Loki. The god grins, lifts further into the air, and flies down the street, disappearing into the maze of buildings that is New York. Rogers knows that they will not be able to find Loki any time soon; the god is far too efficient with his illusions.

 “Hey,” Stark stays. “Don’t beat yourself up, Cap. S’not your fault.

 Rogers sighs, mourning the loss of a teammate that could have been. Stark reaches out and places a comforting hand on his captain’s shoulder, and says, “Seriously, Steve. This isn't your fault.”

 “I just thought I could help him.”

 Stark shrugs, and stands, hobbling back to the tower and the unconscious forms of his teammates. 

 “Loki’s beyond help.”