Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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i.

Thor knows something is wrong the moment he steps into his apartment on Wednesday evening.

The hallway is dark and long, stretching from door to the kitchen and living room. Nothing seems out of place. There is nothing on his carpet – nothing like blood or mud or grime – nor any sound that arises from the gloom… but Thor knows.

He walks slowly, trying to muffle his steps as he approaches the opening of the hall. To the left lies his living room, the right his kitchen.

Quickly, he snaps on the light and tenses himself for any sudden movements.

None come.

There is simply a man, sitting across from him on a chair.

‘Loki,’ Thor breathes, but what he sees is entirely wrong.

-

shall we take a spin again (no witnesses)

-
ii.

The trouble starts when Fandral gets hurt and Sif comes to Thor for money.

‘We’re his only friends… his only family,’ she says to him, ‘I only have a quarter of what it’s going to cost, but Hogun can scrounge something up, he said. Thor, he’s so close to you as he is to all of us, can you manage something?’

And because Thor is a bleeding heart, he gets what he can and then goes looking for more.

-
iii.

Thrym is a built guy, with the skin of, what Thor imagines to be, Antartica under the sun – so pale he might have been the faintest shade of blue. Dressed in a wifebeater, Thor can see the long curving stripes of his tattoos, tribal-like, as they sweep upwards from his forearms to settle beneath the white straps over his shoulders. In the heat, the stripes could be snakes, and it only reminds Thor of how dangerous Thrym could be.

Or so he has heard.

The job at the construction site ends around seven in the evening, the sun a low blaze in the sky as the men pack up and head home. Thor pulls off his dusty shirt and dons a new one that he has in his bag before calling out to Thrym.

‘How about a beer or two?’

From the wave of heat shimmering in the gold sky, it is a wonder why Thrym takes as long as a few seconds to agree.

They arrive at a local bar, hidden in a corner of the block, before Thor spreads the truth before him in a feigned haze of drunkenness.

‘I need money,’ he says to his – fourth? Sixth? – beer. Thrym hums in agreement.

‘So do we all.’

‘You would think there was an easier way to get it,’ he sighs, ‘a lot with less work.’

Thrym drinks his beer in slow, careful swallows. His skin is so pale even from working in the sun, thinks Thor, imagining he can see the honey colour of the drink in the column of his companion’s throat. When Thrym finishes, he lifts the other man’s beer and places it to the side of the table they sit at.

‘Depends on how much you would need, of course,’ he says, voice steady, ‘because it’s going to need some work.’

Thor laughs. ‘You offering me a job?’

Thrym’s mouth twists into an awkward smile. ‘Of a sort.’

-
iv.

He meets Loki three days later.

They’re at a warehouse at the north edge of town, where desert stretches behind them for miles – all bleak, flat landscape and red-orange bush scattered along the horizon. Thrym walks with him into the cool shadow, a final respite from the burning sun.

In some vague part of his mind, Thor always thought gangsters could only meet in the night, but here he is proved wrong.

When they enter the warehouse through a large garage door that has been pulled aside, he sees the crates, vast ones, stacked along the perimeter of the inside, and piled up on top of each other so they threaten to touch the catwalks above. In the gloom, there is a figure that inspects the stickers on one of them before turning to greet the visitors.

He is long and thin, dressed in a leather jacket with gloves and form-fitting jeans. He’s young – and a little part of Thor starts at that. My age, maybe. Mid twenties. With black hair that curled outwards from the nape of his neck and striking green eyes, he is a sight to behold.

‘Thrym,’ he says, softly, and when Thrym walks up to him, bent over to speak in his ear, Thor can see that they’re both pale as milk, as if the sun has never touched them. He wonders if they’re brothers, cousins, family of some sort.

The conversation between the two end after a moment. The young man shoots him a smile, looking less reassuring and more threatening.

‘So you need money,’ he starts off with. Thor nods. ‘How much exactly?’

Thor thinks on Sif, of her sitting at his coffee table with scores of papers and a calculator, pen clutched between her teeth, as she finds her way through the numbers like hunting for fish in a river. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, curling around her shoulders as she hunches over, before it flies everywhere in an ecstatic leap, her face both grim but satisfied with work. She says, ‘in total it should be about – ’

‘Four grand,’ says Thor succinctly.

The young man lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, white teeth glimmering in the light that shines through the entrance of the warehouse.

‘Four thousand,’ he repeats, mouth curling, ‘how about one grand per month?’

‘Per week,’ bites back Thor.

‘Biweekly,’ snarls the man, taken aback by the other’s audacity.

‘And interest?’

The man’s tongue flickers out, smoothing a wet path over his bottom lip. It catches Thor’s attention like nothing else and that bugs him. Stop, pay attention, he’s a loan shark, for fuck’s sake.

‘No interest,’ says the man, and Thor’s eyes snap up in surprise, his body automatically tensing at the catch he might hear. ‘Pay back your money on the dates I have set and the only interest you’ll owe is but a few favours here and there.’

‘A few… favours?’ Caution steals over him like a pall, draping him in nothing but a slow climbing adrenaline rush.

‘Nothing too much, of course,’ reassures the young man, before turning to Thrym and murmuring words in the man’s ear. Thrym nods, walking away to disappear into the dark of the warehouse, the black seeping over his paleness like ink, and Thor vaguely wonders what lies back there. The young man’s eyes glitter like poison when he resumes speaking, ‘my name is Loki,’ he says, ‘and who should I make the cheque out to?’

‘Thor. Thor Odinson.’

-
v.

Fandral is driving to meet them for a dinner and a movie and maybe some bar-hopping on Friday evening, starting to picking Hogun up at his place. It is Hogun’s birthday and he has yet to experience the city’s night-life so Thor and Fandral have decided at that moment to take him out. Thor is already there having a preliminary beer with Hogun in his apartment. Sif is to meet them later at the restaurant, along with Volstagg. They plan to stay out until two drinking and dancing and talking.

Fandral is driving on a Friday evening and is crossing an intersection when a semi-truck collides into his car.

-
vi.

Fandral is a part-time bartender and studies at the local university, learning design. Half of his money is invested in school-loans, the other half in paying his rent and managing costs. He hasn’t seen his family in three years, nor do they have any interest in contacting him.

Sif explains this all in a certain, logical voice, betraying the shine to her eyes. She grits her teeth and lies to the nurse, saying, ‘I’m his sister, Thor’s his cousin,’ and gets access to the fees that Fandral will have to deal with when he finally wakes up not delirious from his pain-killers.

‘He’ll never afford this,’ she says to Thor, eyes wide and a righteous fury colouring her cheeks. ‘Fuck this,’ she snarls, ‘I’ll pay.’

But it’s not enough.

The longer Fandral takes to heal, the more money that piles on.

-
vii.

‘Here.’

Her face is a perfect impression of surprise.

‘Thor,’ she breathes, her fingers holding the cheque with delicacy and restraint, as if she is too close to cashing it in already. ‘W-Where did you get this?’

‘I had some more saved up, took a bit of overtime,’ Thor shrugs, eyes trailing the long ripple of gold hair and dark eyes. He hasn’t seen her so overwhelmed with happiness in a long time. Fandral’s been in the hospital for close to three weeks. He wakes up in small bouts, dazed. Luckily, he is awake longer and longer each day. When they visit, the doctor feels his ribs, his broken bones, his concussion and his superficial cuts and scratches, telling them all he is healing at a good pace.

‘He’ll be out and in physiotherapy soon,’ Sif says, placing the cheque on her kitchen table beside the piles of papers already there. She moves to her coffee maker, pouring herself a cup. Sunday morning sunlight graces her form, hiding the bruises under her eyes, and Thor might think she actually looks relaxed.

‘We haven’t been to his apartment,’ she murmurs, ‘oh god, it must smell so bad – his plants might be dead too. Fuck.’

‘Volstagg lives close by,’ interjects Thor gently, a hand closing over her shoulder. ‘I can go with him and clean it up, Sif. Don’t worry so much. He’s getting better.’ Massaging her gently, she lets out a hiss, rolling into his grip, before pulling away.

‘I’ll be fine, Thor,’ she tells him, draining her coffee and placing the cup in the sink.

‘Sleep more,’ he advises her, ready to take leave. Sif nods, but he knows she won’t.

-
viii.

Loki calls him five days after he hands Thor a cheque for one thousand dollars.

It is ten on a Wednesday and Thor has just escaped the shower when his phone rings.

‘Hello, Thor,’ says the voice, just as soft as he recalls it, ‘I require a payment of four hundred by next week. That gives you seven days. In the meantime, it’s time for your interest.’

Thor grits his teeth, trying to figure out how he’s going to get so much in such a short amount of time. Overtime on the weekends. And no more cable. You don’t need heating for this month, either, do you? July humidity sneaks through his apartment, small as it is, and refuses to leave, answering the question.

For Fandral, he tells himself, and for not getting killed by Thrym.

‘Problem?’ Loki’s smirk slides through his voice. ‘Now, you’re not busy, are you?’

Thor says, ‘no.’ Because he can.

The second of silence he gets is worth the insult. ‘You are busy?’ Loki’s voice takes on an edge, irritated and sharp, ‘well, too bad, Thor, because we’re going out. Bring your truck and pick me up.’

He spits out an address, which Thor hurriedly scribbles down, and hangs up after a curt, ‘fifteen minutes, be quick.’

Dressed in jeans, a white shirt and a plaid overshirt, Thor grabs his keys and leaves to find Loki.

-
iv.

Loki is in his leather jacket, a green shirt underneath and jeans. His jet black hair looks mussed and a cigarette hangs from his mouth, looking prepared to fall to the cement the moment the man exhales. All in all, he’s less of a loan shark and more of a rebellious teenager.

The only indication he is older than he seems is in the way he stands, straight backed, head cocked upwards in a sneer.

‘Don’t have your own ride?’ asks Thor, when Loki gets in the passenger’s seat. Smoke curls from the stick and lingers in the air. Loki’s eyes, venom green even in the streetlight, slide over to him.

‘Drive to here.’ He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it over to Thor. The blonde man reads it off silently.

‘Only if you put out that cigarette.’

‘No,’ snaps Loki, blowing smoke out from his mouth in a deliberate manner.

Thor twitches before grabbing the stick from the other man’s fingers and tossing it out of the open window on the driver’s side.

Loki tenses, jaw clenched tight and a muscle in his throat leaping up to view, before pouncing on him, nails sinking into the muscle of Thor’s arms as a knee is shoved into his side, winding him momentarily. ‘You punk,’ Loki snarls in a fit of anger, trying to punch him but missing as Thor ducks, his large hands enveloping the startlingly thin waist of the other.

Vaguely, he’s glad he’s not wearing his seatbelt – an all-around ridiculous thought – as he grabs one of Loki’s wrists, easily curling around the circumference, keeping a tight grip on his waist and crushing him against the inside of the passenger door. Loki’s legs, bent towards his chest, shoot out, his boots catching Thor in the chest. Thor very nearly doubles over, but he lets go of Loki’s waist to shove away the limbs to the space between the seat and floor.

With one hand holding a tight grip on his thigh, he moves the other to his shoulder, feeling the glass of the passenger window against his fingers.

‘Stop,’ he growls.

Loki bares his teeth in retaliation.

‘I said, stop, Loki,’ Thor snaps, putting more pressure in his grip.

It takes half a minute before Loki’s body relaxes and his face goes blank, though his green eyes glitter in anger. Thor beats a retreat, pulling away quickly and settling himself back in his seat. The young man straightens himself, sliding a hand through his hair, before smiling, an unsettling quirk of his mouth.

‘You can fight and restrain, how quaint,’ he remarks, voice easy and low as if he had not just been manhandled moments ago.

Thor wonders if there is a catch to this as well, before he starts the engine and pulls away from the curve. A moment later, he can feel wetness on his cheek and discovers he’s bleeding. Loki’s nails must have scratched him.

-
x.

The destination is a club. The familiar beat of the baseline is heard from the stairs that lead down to the half-hidden door, protected by the bouncer. Thor parks half a block away, watching Loki get out and walk towards it with ease.

Thor follows, feeling much like a dog, before Loki stops only a few steps away from the stair well.

‘The nature of this favour is simple,’ he says lowly, murmuring into Thor’s ear, ‘I’m going to in here and you’re going to protect me, understand?’

‘And how much is that worth, interest-wise?’ shoots back Thor, but this time the other is prepared.

‘Depends how much you do,’ smiles Loki, cold and dangerous and more of a loan shark than any rebellious teenager he’s ever imagined.

They head down the stairs, bypassing the impassive face of the bouncer to a door that is perpendicular to the one that leads to the club. Loki opens it without hesitation, pushing it in as it swings to a room filled with a table in the middle and chairs. There are people milling around, some in suits, the others in casual wear. Two men flank the entrance on the inside and they nod to Loki before shutting the door and sliding their hands down his waist. The weapons check lasts a short twenty seconds before they move onto Thor.

There are two doors, Thor notes. One of which they’ve entered and another on the wall to the right, where the muffled beat of the club can be heard. It is a private room then. One of the walls is covered with a cabinet of liquor and glasses. To the left, there is a pool table and stools. A few of the men nod to Loki, who looks totally in his element, like a cat prowling through the dim-lit gloom.

It’s a noir movie, thinks Thor, but with more plaid.

‘Laufeyson,’ says one man at the table, pouring himself a drink. He takes the glass and moves to the head of the table where the light catches his face.

He’s old, Thor sees with a sort of surprise. He is pale, with a cap of white hair and a lined face. He is dressed in a brown suit, and the hand with which he holds his glass is wrinkled, green and blue veins threaded around the knuckles and slipping underneath the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes are a muddied brown that borders on red, like a deep, dark wine.

‘All these men?’ asks Loki, and Thor knows it is an indication that the old one is the head.

‘You leave me no choice but to defend myself, Laufeyson,’ says the man, his voice deep. He takes a sip of the drink – a gold like rum.

‘I only wish for a tidbit of information,’ replies the other easily, gesturing to Thor behind him, ‘and look, I only brought one companion. Do you trust me now?’

‘Never,’ comes the succinct reply.

Loki hums, ‘do what you want. Now, I just have a question for you.’

The old man sets his drink down on the table, glass clinking loudly in the relative quiet. ‘You,’ he says, eyeing Thor, ‘where did you find him?’

Loki does not even spare him a glance. ‘A dumpster. At Tiffany’s. What does it matter?’

‘Perhaps,’ he murmurs, ‘your name?’

‘Donald,’ interjects Loki roughly, ‘Donald Blake.’

‘Shut up, Laufeyson,’ snaps the old man. ‘Come now, you’re not mute.’

The look Loki shoots him is menacing and dark. Thor thinks before answering, to insult Loki once more or not. Yet, he knows it’s simply not worth the outrage on the man’s face if he does tell the truth. It would do him no good if those of the underworld knew his name.

‘It is as Loki says,’ he replies instead. The old man examines him shrewdly.

‘Just so,’ he says slowly, before his voice takes a turn for loud and demanding. ‘Well then, you want to know where the Vanir are?’

Loki straightens, the attention back on him. The men around the room have not moved an inch, Thor sees. They’re waiting for a signal. Yet, he cannot know what it is. Truthfully, he knows nothing – just enough to keep him on his toes. Just that the old man is wealthy and powerful, enough to make a prideful loan shark come begging at his heels.

‘Only the heirs,’ Loki says. He waits as the man drains his drink in deliberately slow sips.

Finally: ‘they’ll be arriving from the east in two days. You know their meet-up location already, I presume.’ It is not a question, but a statement of fact. The old man knows, Thor thinks. Loki bristles.

‘Two days, in the evening, east,’ he repeats, but the old man gives no indication of affirmation. Finally, Loki gives a nod to the old man and gestures at Thor that they are leaving. A voice calls out to them, though.

‘It would be best if you dropped this bodyguard, Laufeyson,’ says the man. ‘He does not seem fit for the job.’

‘I’ll do what I want, old man,’ snaps Loki, and the bodyguards advance on him for the insult. Thor tenses, ready to beat them off.

‘No, no, stop,’ snaps the man irritably and the guards stop in their tracks. Thor hisses out a breath in relief. Carefully, they advance to the door, which the men open, letting the streetlight slip through into the room.

‘Laufeyson, send the All-Father my regards.’

‘You mean the ones saying ‘I hope you drop dead’?’

But the door is open already so Loki escapes unscathed, his laughter slipping out sharp and cruel, as Thor follows.

-
xi.

Once they are back in the truck, Loki scribbles down the info on a ripped sheet of paper he has in his pocket and shoves it on the inside of his boot, before relaxing in his seat. Thor does not comment, just watches the leather arch of the young man’s back as he straightens and finds a comfortable position.

’How many favours do I owe you now?’

Loki does not even spare him a glance. ‘Many. But I’ll lower your repayment plan. I’ll take three hundred by next week. That should be manageable, hm?’

Thor does not comment on this sudden magnanimity on the other’s part. ‘Anywhere else?’

‘No,’ he says, resting his forehead against the window pane. ‘Go home, I’ll walk from there.’

‘I’d prefer loan sharks not knowing where I live,’ says Thor.

‘I already know where you live,’ replies Loki without heat. ‘I’m a loan shark.’

‘What else do you know?’

‘Nothing that should concern you at the moment.’

‘And when will it?’

Loki stirs from his position, irritation seeping into his features. ‘Never, if you do everything right. Now get going.’

Thor contemplates picking another fight with him, knowing he could overpower the man, but it’s late and he needs to sleep in order to work tomorrow, so he starts the engine and drives.

-
xii.

Loki has a skill in disappearing into the shadows, like a cat, but feral and dangerous.

When Thor loses sight of him, he unlocks the door and steps into the building, riding the elevator to his floor and returning to his home. It’s dark, and nothing is disturbed. It is as he left it, and the familiarity is a comfort after that hour with Loki.

He thinks on Fandral and reassures himself that it is worth it all. Worth having a dangerous man with his phone number and personal information if it means Fandral can get better sooner and not suffer the consequences. And the look on Sif’s face – that relief that flooded her eyes and the part in her mouth when she gasped. That was worth something as well.

With a feeling akin to satisfaction, Thor enters his bathroom to get cleaned up for bed. When he looks at his reflection, he can see how the blood has crusted along the straight diagonal scratch on his cheekbone. Wiping it away with a wet cloth, Thor examines it, and he has enough experience to realize that the way his skin parts with ease is not the work of a human nail.

When? When did Loki cut him with a knife?

Suddenly, Thor doubts that fight in the truck.

-
xiii.

On Friday, Thor takes overtime at the site, cleaning up and doing minor work under the giant, piercing lights. His supervisor agrees to let him work all day over the weekend and promises pay on Monday, to which Thor knows will be enough now that Loki has lowered his prior amount.

When he comes home at night, he eats a microwave dinner while flipping channels on a cable that would soon be gone. The news yells out something about gunshots and murders, and Thor takes time to listen idly, wondering if he will hear a familiar word, like Loki, Laufeyson or Vanir.

‘At nine, there was a reporting of gunshots near the edge north east of the city. Police have discovered bullets and two dead bodies in one of the many abandoned farmsteads in this area. Information on the two victims have not been released as of yet. However, police have admitted this to have been linked to gang violence. More to come later – ’

Thor can feel his heart beat fast in his chest. A creeping horror steals over him, drowning out any sounds except for the blood rushing in his ears as he feels a sickness settle low into his stomach.

With stuttering movements, he pulls out his phone, looking through his call history and spotting Loki’s number. He presses dial.

‘Hello?’ The voice is low and familiar.

‘Did you kill them?’

‘Thor?’ says the voice, tinged with incredulity.

‘What we did on Wednesday, it was to kill these people, wasn’t it,’ he growls out, incapable of letting it become a question.

‘Oh, you’ve been watching the news then. Didn’t think a man like you’d bother,’ remarks Loki, his voice becoming something easy and soft again. As if he’s getting comfortable.

‘Fuck your favours,’ snarls out Thor.

‘Oh, calm down,’ he replies, ‘you didn’t kill anyone. I don’t see the problem.’

‘Would you have gotten that information if I hadn’t come?’

‘Does it matter? It’s too late now.’

‘I won’t be a part of this,’ Thor says with a finality he hopes comes through to the other end.

‘But you are,’ croons Loki, ‘it’s much too late now. The old man knows you. And when the old man knows you, you’re part of us.’

‘Who is us?’ Thor grinds out.

‘Us, Thor,’ and his voice changes to something a bit darker, more threatening, ‘those who live off the radar, loan sharks and prostitutes and gangsters and hustlers and thieves and grifters – all of us.’

‘I’m not one of you. I won’t be – ‘

‘Shut the fuck up, Thor,’ snaps Loki, ‘the old man doesn’t give a shit whether you’re a construction worker or a killer, he’s seen you with me, and it’s too fucking late now. So get your shit together and don’t call me with your little morality freak outs, understand.’

With that, he hangs up.

Is it worth it now?

Thor can’t bear to answer that question yet.

-
xiv.

After a weekend of overtime, Thor still feels restless. He cannot bear to cancel his cable yet because the news still haunts him. He waits impatiently for any new details. Any new evidence. Anything at all that means that Loki has no involvement in it, which means Thor has no involvement.

It’s a futile hope. The only thing the police release to the news is that they’re both middle-aged men who were armed. Some of the bullets had come from their guns. It was a shootout. It’s a gang thing. Thor is in too deep, too fast.

After work on Monday, with his money, he makes way to the hospital to see Fandral. Sif and Volstagg are already there, talking with him, but they cheer when Thor enters the room.

‘Thor,’ greets Fandral with a smile. There are bruises over his face, and he has a sickly pallor to him. Yet, he is awake and he can talk and Thor can’t help but feel a rush of happiness. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘To you,’ Thor retorts, ‘you’re the bastard who’s always asleep.’

Fandral laughs. ‘Ah, I’ve missed this.’ His blue eyes are warm. Thor can see the easy slope of Sif’s shoulders and the eager lean of Volstagg as he speaks to Fandral. It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it. A hopeless mantra, but it sustains him.

‘I’ll be up and walking soon, y’know,’ says Fandral, ‘we have to own up to that promise to Hogun to take him out, don’t we?’

‘Obviously,’ says Sif, ‘but let’s wait until you don’t look like a lumbering old man. You think anyone’s going to talk to Hogun then, with his grandpa hanging around?’

Fandral takes the time to look affronted. ‘I will have you know that I could still get five girls’ numbers right here, right now. Nurses, Sif. Young, beautiful nurses.’

‘Oh god,’ she groans, and this whole exchange is so familiar and heart-warming that Thor lets the night with Loki slip from memory.

It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it –

-
xv.

After work in Wednesday, he gives the three hundred to Thrym, who nods in understanding and disappears in his truck soon after.

Thor has no real inclination to meet Loki ever again, but it is a futile hope, which is shattered quite sufficiently the moment his phone rings at nine in the evening.

‘Have you showered yet?’ asks Loki in greeting.

Thor hangs up.

He stands there in suspense for a minute, heart beating fast, wondering if his phone will explode or if they will plant a bomb in his car in retaliation for hanging up so abruptly. Or, better yet, they’ll shoot him in an abandoned farmstead because it seems to be quite a thing with Loki and his people.

Nothing happens to the phone.

Thor sighs and takes to his shower.

At nine thirty, there is a knock on his door. Thor checks the peephole and balks.

‘Open the door,’ says Loki, looking thoroughly bored standing in the hallway.

‘Did you get the money?’ Thor calls through the door.

‘Yes, yes, now let me in so we can have this conversation like civilized people,’ and here his eyes go sharp, ‘or is that somewhat of a novelty to someone like you?’

Against his better judgement, Thor opens the door and lets him in. Loki prowls through the hallway, dressed in his customary leather jacket and jeans. His hair is straightened this time, smoothed back so it flares at his nape. Finally, he reaches Thor’s living room, letting himself sprawl over the couch, looking around in distinct interest.

‘The humble abode of a bodyguard.’

‘I’m not a – ’

Loki waves away his protests. ‘I know, I know.’ He takes another look around, slowly absorbing the details. ‘I want another favour from you.’

‘I thought I said – ’

‘Yes, right, how could I forget,’ here, his voice dips an octave in imitation, ‘something like, fuck my favours.’ Resuming his usual tone, he continues, ‘well, I thought it had been quite clear that I had said it’s too late, so you might as well go through with it. Or else.’

Thor snorts. ‘Or else? You can’t threaten me, Loki.’

‘Oh, I find that statement quite debatable.’

‘If you could, you wouldn’t need me as a bodyguard,’ he points out.

‘That cut on your face says something else,’ sighs Loki, looking bored again, and he flicks his hand outwards, producing a small blade in his palm.

Thor bristles. Then: ‘Why?’

‘There are many reasons why, Thor,’ he replies, sliding the blade back into the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Would you be happier to know it’s because I like you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, I didn’t hope it would.’ Loki stands up, smoothing his clothes. ‘It is the truth, which is more than some people can get out of me.’

Thor ignores the admission. ‘What do you want tonight?’

Loki pointedly drags his gaze over Thor’s body, intention evident in the smear of a smile he puts up. ‘How nice of you to ask.’

‘Stop.’

Loki shrugs, sliding his poison green eyes back again over his home. ‘Just a small babysitting service.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘All you, and everyone else, knows is that we killed two men,’ and Loki grins, amusement lingering in his eyes. ‘What you don’t know is that we kept two alive.’

-

Chapter Text

-

xvi.

Thrym is having a beer at the kitchen counter when they arrive.

Loki slides into the home with ease, nodding to the man, before heading down the hall to a door. He gestures for Thor to follow as he swings it open and walks down the stairs – footsteps echoing throughout the otherwise silent home.

Thor does not spare Thrym a glance before following, his descent loud on the wooden stairs. The basement smells musty as the stairs lead into a large open space. The floor is carpeted, which abruptly stops and turns into tile at the end where the kitchen and the bathroom are. There are no walls between the space, only metal poles supporting the foundation, and the only covering being the shower curtain pulled back from the tub in the corner. In the center are two chairs in the middle, both occupied.

The two figures are evidently twins, despite the blood caked over their faces, the bruised skin and the large square of duct-tape over their mouths. Though one is man and the other a woman, they both have long, red hair – like copper under the light, their skin is a shade darker than Loki, and blue eyes that pierce with an anger that would intimidate a lesser man. With their wrists taped behind their backs and ankles attached to the respective legs of the chair, they can only glare as Thor and Loki enter the room.

‘Thor,’ starts Loki, teasing, ‘meet our new guests, Freyr and Freya Vanir.’

A muffled growl escapes the woman.

‘Oh, did you wish to speak?’ Loki flips a blade into his palm, approaching her with steady steps.

‘Don’t cut her,’ Thor says, quickly, instinctively. The bound man glances in surprise at his direction, as Loki ignores him, though he slips the blade back in his sleeve and rips off the tape with his fingers in a swift, merciless motion.

‘Fuck you,’ she snarls, loud, ‘you really want to die that bad, Laufeyson?’

‘Oh, I do not intend to die at the hands of Vanaheim, please,’ scoffs the other, ‘I have standards.’

‘You don’t think this isn’t going to start a gang war?’ she asks roughly. ‘Kidnap the heirs, and kill their guards? It’s all over the news, isn’t it?’ When no answer comes, she grins, ‘I made sure to make it loud and showy.’

Scowling, Loki turns towards Thor, ‘Freya, here, is quite the gunman. Do be careful of her hands.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean why,’ sighs the young man, ‘Thor, do keep up.’

‘I mean,’ snaps Thor, ‘why am I here?’

‘To babysit, of course.’

‘I refuse.’

Freya lets out a laugh, sharp and piercing. ‘Nothing ever goes your way, does it, Laufeyson? Even your lackeys question you.’

‘When I need your advice on how not to fuck up,’ says Loki through a sharp-toothed smile, ‘I’ll make sure to be the one tied up in enemy territory.’

Freya flinches, but doesn’t reply.

‘Every night, after work, you’ll follow Thrym here, bring them dinner and let them bathe and piss, then lock them back up again.’

‘They’re not animals, Loki.’

‘I agree,’ and Loki slides his poison green eyes over them with a glitter that scares Thor, ‘which is why I want you to treat our guests as such.’

Thor stiffens, muscles bunching up in his neck as he tries to hold his anger and disgust in. Freya leans over to her brother, who has not torn his eyes off Loki’s neck as if preparing to rip it off with his teeth, and her mouth closes over his cheek. A corner of the tape has dislodged and she bites it, slowly peeling it off his clean-shaven face.

Loki makes no move to stop them. He only inclines his head towards the blonde man, tasting the hostility in the air like honey.

‘I’m sure you’ll come through, Thor, or else.’

‘Or else?’ His voice comes out as a hiss, smeared with a hint of despair.

‘Or else,’ and his voice drops an octave, soft and careful, syllables a caress against the trembling cheek of Thor, ‘your girl suffers. Sif, isn’t it?’

The explosion is abrupt, but expected.

Thor throws the first punch, swinging wide, as Loki ducks, shoving his shoulder hard against the bigger one. Staggering backwards and hitting the wall behind him, Thor brings down a fist on Loki’s back, but the smaller man backs off quickly. More punches come in his direction, and Loki tries his utmost to dance backwards.

Eventually, he hits the other wall with a resounding bang, head cracking against the plaster. Yet, still, Loki has enough mind to fall down as Thor’s fist crashes through where his head used to be. Pulling back, his hand and knuckles are distorted and bloody, though no pain seems to register in the snarl plastered over the blonde man’s face. Swiftly, Loki gets up into a crouch though he crashes again against the wall when Thor kicks him.

Blood fills his mouth and he chokes, unable to get a grip on the situation as Thor hauls him up with the lapels of his leather jacket and slams him back onto the carpet. Dimly, he registers a thumping that approaches, getting louder, yet Loki has no time to analyze anything except the way Thor comes down upon him again, one large fist closing over his neck and – fuck, he’s just like –

Loki blacks out to the image of Thrym standing behind Thor.

-

xvii.

When he comes to, there is still noise of fighting.

Thor remains the violent creature from before, and he brings down a hailstorm of fists upon Thrym’s torso, making the man cough up blood as he tries to push or kick the other away.

The redhead twins are watching with a dazed look in their eyes as they watch the blonde monster beat Thrym to a bleeding, bruised pulp. Both still tied and taped, Loki can see they’re unable to do anything but watch. Dimly, he considers the possibility of letting them go, but quickly crushes the idea. Thor will not be the end to Loki’s careful plans.

Bringing his attention back onto the scene, Loki sees Thor shove a bloodied fist into Thrym’s cheek before the man simply drops – out cold. Panting, Thor turns his face towards Loki, approaching with predatory steps, his eyes icy and unfeeling, face a blank mask.

Loki spits the blood in his mouth onto the carpet and stands. He takes a breath, then another, before stepping forward. One. Two.

Once more, Thor swings wide.

You’re just like her, Thor. Just like –

Instead of ducking, Loki steps inside the other’s space. Without thought, the smaller man folds his hands along the curve of Thor’s face, thumbs pressing fingerprints underneath the electric blue eyes, as he pulls the face closer to his, breath carding through the other’s hair as Loki’s mouth bumps against the shell of Thor’s ear, voice low and familiar, ‘Thor, come back.’

Behold, Thor does.

-

xviii.

Finally, Thor crumples – sputtering and hurting. His mouth is lathered in blood - must’ve bit my tongue – and each breath sends a ripple of pain through his nerve endings, feeling like he’s on fire.

When enough time has passed for his mind to regain some semblance of thinking, he looks up at the long, lean form of Loki standing over his half-curled body, his face betraying nothing.

‘You’re a berserkr.’ His tone brooks no argument.

Thor glances beside him and sees Thrym lying limply on his side, face swollen and smeared with blood. ‘I did that.’

Loki ignores the comment. ‘You’ll do it, then?’

Thor closes his eyes, lets repulsion crash over him in waves and a hopeless chasm open up in his chest.

‘Yes I’ll do it,’ he says quietly. When he opens then again, Loki has stepped closer. Though his face is a blank slate, the blonde man wonders if he can decipher the look in the poison green eyes. Something like curiosity, or perhaps revelation. A truth in the madness, here.

‘Clean yourself up, then,’ says Loki quietly, turning to leave, ‘and I will see you here tomorrow night at ten. Bring food.’

He disappears up the stairs, stomping loudly as Thor is left alone with the redheaded twins.

-

xix.

In the minutes that follow, one pale-skinned man with a hood overtop his head, obscuring his features, comes down the stairs, hefts up Thrym over his shoulder and disappears upstairs. Thor then goes to the kitchen sink and washes the blood off his knuckles, feeling for breaks or sprains in his hand and wrist, and fills two plastic cups with water.

He carries them over to the twins, and both say nothing as he tilts the cup to their mouths, watching them drain the liquid almost instantaneously.

‘Thank you,’ says the man – Freyr – and his voice is rough and low, as if he has gravel in his throat. Freya nods as well, expression wary.

‘I’m sorry for this,’ says Thor in return, but he receives no response. He takes the cups back to the sink and washes them. Opening the cupboards for food, he finds a box of unopened Cheerios and two pairs of handcuffs.

‘So that’s what he meant by lock them up,’ murmurs Thor, finding the keys in the adjacent shelf.

Walking back to the twins, he sighs before grabbing the back of the chair behind Freyr and dragging him to the wall. There’s a long metal pole that runs from the ceiling to the ground, a part of the foundation, and the cuff goes around it easily. Freyr remains still and silent as Thor rips the duct-tape from his wrists and clasps the other cuff around one of them. He then unbinds the man’s ankles and repeats this performance with Freya – also silent – placing her cuff on top of her brother’s on the pole.

They both stand then, shoving the chairs to the side as the blood rushes back to their extremities. Thor sees how they are both the same height as well, with smooth, tan skin and red hair that pools around their shoulders. Their bodies are lean and slight, resembling Loki’s, as they test the strength of the cuffs and the pole, before straightening out their clothes and sliding to sit down, backs against the wall only a few centimetres from the pole.

‘That was the first fight I’ve seen with Laufeyson where he did not use a weapon,’ remarks Freyr, dragging his eyes over Thor with calculated interest. Thor does not move, nor react, simply stands in front of them awkwardly with a box of cereal.

‘Must be special, brother. So, what’s your name? Thor?’ asks Freya with a tilt to her head as she traces the contours of his form.

‘Yeah,’ says Thor absently, a hand touching his side as if to inspect for wounds.

‘Doesn’t look too bright,’ teases the woman, ‘must keep him around for his looks.’

‘So, you noticed too, did you?’ replies the other, and he quirks a smile.

‘We are guests,’ she drawls, ‘Laufeyson’ll let us share his blonde bitch, won’t he?’

Thor looks up at this, fingers tightening on the cereal box so it lets out a faint crunch. ‘I’m not his bitch. I’ve been coerced like the both of you, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘So you say, but he’s the one who got you out of your berserkr mode,’ points out Freyr, ‘he must have some power over you.’

‘I – I don’t,’ frowns Thor, unable to respond.

‘I’ve never seen a real berserkr before, though,’ remarks the woman, ‘only heard of them.’

‘Isn’t Laufeyson’s father a berserkr?’

‘No, no, that’s his mother, brother.’

‘You know of his parents?’ asks Thor abruptly, curiosity lining his eyes in eager anticipation. Freya licks her lips.

‘They’re both rumoured to be big ones in the underground,’ she says, ‘Laufeyson is born with criminal in his blood.’

‘Maybe Thor here is too, sister.’

Thor scowls. ‘I’m just a fucking construction worker with temper issues. I have no relations with you people.’

They both laugh then, echoing through the basement, cruel and loud.

‘You just beat a man half to death in a house filled with gangsters and you’re claiming innocence?’ snarls Freya, her previous amusement replaced quickly with disgust.

They both watch him in silence, as if contemplating whether to talk to him or not. The minute passes in a tense, unyielding silence before Freya drops her gaze to the floor and decides to sleep. Freyr follows suite, pushing himself against the wall so he can lean against his sister’s shoulder.

Thor is disappointed, but he is also tired and in agony, so he lets it go and leaves the Cheerios box in front of the pole before he leaves.

-

xx.

He wakes up sore the next morning, but goes to work despite it.

Thrym is absent, as is expected, and Thor can feel a pang of remorse slink into his chest. For so long he had thought that the temper part of him, the one that hurt without feeling anything, was gone. Yet, Loki had brought it back – like a sudden storm – and then chased it away with but a touch and a few words.

His memories of the incident are few and fractured. Thor only recalls the feel of Loki’s leather lapels fisted in his hands, the crunch of bone when he hit Thrym, the heat of the hands on his cheeks as a voice came through the red-misted haze – ’Thor, come back.

He thinks of Sif, then. For Fandral, for Sif, for all these things that your love can’t put aside. Sentiment seems to be a weakness on Thor’s part, but he can’t bring himself to care. It is a character flaw he would more readily embrace than the cold-blooded manipulation of Loki and the sharp cruelty he thinks the Vanir twins are capable of.

He goes home immediately after work, showers and eats dinner alone, placing extra in a plastic container, promptly stuck in a pack with other things, as he prepares to visit the house again.

Driving there, he can see the middle-class suburbia spread before him, with green lawns and dark alleyways, the occasional pedestrian and cars around. This is not a wealthy neighbourhood, but it is not a slum either, fringing just on the border of poverty but rising above it in a vain attempt - imitation is reality.

The house itself is a baby blue, with white doors and shutters. The lawn is surprisingly well-kept and the fence’s paint is only peeling in small places. When he knocks, the door is opened by a man with pale skin – as all Loki’s henchmen seem to be – and, surprisingly, face tattoos curling from under the neck of his sweater to spread upwards in curls around his cheek and eyes.

‘I’m here to babysit,’ Thor offers in explanation, and the man nods, stepping aside. The basement door is closed but unlocked, and he descends the staircase, seeing how the carpet has been bleached for no blood is seen.

The twins are sitting beside the pole, no longer leaning against the wall, and talking quietly to each other. They are close, Freya’s mouth curving over her brother’s ear and, as he replies, his lips bump against the shell of her ear in turn. It is disconcertingly intimate but Thor can see the uses of being able to talk in near silence.

‘I brought food,’ he offers, and they spare him a glance and whispered remark before nodding.

‘Took you long enough,’ Freya tells him as he opens the container. It’s frozen lasagne heated in his oven but tastes good enough. He places the container in front of them and opens his pack. There are plastic spoons, napkins, some bread and two water bottles.

‘A veritable meal,’ says Freyr, picking up the container and spoon. He splits it in half as much as he can before eating a spoonful. Freya waits until her brother swallows before taking the container from him and a spoon.

‘You’re not dead,’ she says. Freyr licks his spoon.

‘It seems not. He does want us alive for something.’

’I wouldn’t poison – ’ starts Thor, taken aback.

Freya scowls and eats with violence. Once she devours her half, she gives the rest to her brother before nibbling on some bread and drinking the water. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbles to Thor, who simply sits back and watches them.

‘You’re polite for a gangster,’ remarks the blonde. Freya looks up at him.

‘Just because you’re a criminal doesn’t mean you’re not human,’ she snaps.

Thor doesn’t answer. He looks at the walls behind him, where he had slammed Loki – or was it Thrym? – and that also remains a pristine white. The hole on the wall perpendicular is a new patch of plaster. So that’s where the splinters came from.

‘Is Loki a beserkr too?’ he wonders out loud, and Freya gives him a passing glance before shaking her head.

‘He doesn’t seem like it. What do you think, brother?’

Freyr also shakes his head. ‘I’ve only seen him fight twice.’

‘You really don’t know anything about Laufeyson, do you?’ asks Freya with a curiosity creeping in her voice. ‘Damn. You really are from the normal world, aren’t you?’

Thor doesn’t say a word, taking the dirty spoons and empty containers away. He gets up to head to the kitchen, washing the dishes quickly before packing them up. Then, he returns to sit before the twins, avoiding their gaze by tracing over their clothes.

Both are barefooted, wearing long blue jeans and long-sleeved shirts. The clothes themselves are dirty, with smears of mud and dust. There are no accessories on their person, Thor notes, no necklace under the blue neckline of Freya’s shirt that curves down to leave a glimpse of breast. Nor any pendant to signify Freyr’s relation to the Vanir under his own sharp, V-cut of his shirt. Insignias on their bodies – like tattoos. Like Thrym.

‘See something you like,’ Freya leers, drawing her knees apart as she pressed her back against the wall, legs splayed open. Thor glances at her brother, who only watches her through the corner of her eye. Before the blonde has enough mind to think of a reply, the familiar tread of steps down the stairs resound through the room.

‘And what do you like, Thor,’ asks Loki, sliding into the light, poison green eyes sliding down the form of Freya spread before him, ‘ah, so it is true, you do spread your legs for anyone.’

He is dressed differently, sees Thor, his lean form underneath a long trench coat instead of his customary leather jacket, gloves and a formal suit and tie peeking into view.

‘Only those worthy to take me,’ replies Freya easily, snapping her legs shut, ‘and you’re not one of them.’

Loki hums, otherwise occupied by the sight of Thor sitting before them, a pack at his side. ‘Interested? I could let you?’ Though his tone is light, when the blonde man glances up, he can see the cold, calculated interest in the eyes. Something like a warning.

‘No,’ he replies firmly, standing up.

‘Really?’ Freya nudges her brother with her shoulder. ‘Interested in him, then?’

‘Fuck off,’ Thor bites back, heat rising to his cheeks. Both the woman and Loki laugh, sharp and short. Yet, Thor can’t be bothered to think of a reply to defend himself, resigned to a still, perfect statue of himself.

‘You may leave now, Thor,’ says Loki, turning towards him. ‘Don’t bother coming tomorrow.’

The blonde man pauses, slightly surprised, but he only nods slowly and turns to leave, steps hesitant as he reaches the top of the stairs. He pauses before opening the door, hearing the man speak to the twins.

‘I have some news for you.’

Thor escapes before he can hear the end. Is ignorance really bliss? He can’t be bothered to find out.

-

xxi.

Thor negotiates overtime for the weekend again the next day.

The Friday sun sinks slow and careful over the horizon as he drives home to shower, change and visit Fandral at the hospital. The ache of punching Thrym still lingers in his hands, though the creeping fear of himself is much more prominent.

I am a berserkr.

There is a name to him now. Something to define him. Something he can say out loud to find others like him. This shouldn’t give him as much relief as he does. Thor always lived with the thought that he was dangerously different. No one else was like him. No one else was tall and fierce like him; no one could hurt and probably kill without even conscious knowledge of what they were doing. No one was a complete, walking weapon like Thor Odinson.

-

xxii.

Fandral’s face has regained colour and Hogun is sitting there beside him. Both Volstagg and Sif are catching an overtime shift at work so the Asian man is the only one there. He grins when Thor enters the ward, nodding to him.

‘You look less like you got run over with a bulldozer today,’ Thor says with a smile.

Fandral scoffs, ‘you would know, you always look like that.’

Hogun muffles a laugh. He leans back in his chair, watching them both exchange banter easily before interrupting in his customary, quiet firm voice.

‘Fandral is going to be out in three weeks, they say.’

Thor looks at him in surprise. ‘Three weeks?’

‘Physio sucks, man,’ says Fandral, ‘so they’re gonna keep me here for as long as it takes to get my legs back in working order. Stupid, really, I can stand up just fine.’ To prove his point, he swings his legs to the side of the bed, a hand gripping the rail tightly, knuckles turning white when his toes touch the cold floor.

He pushes himself off the mattress and manages to stay upright long enough to say, ‘See?’ before his knees buckle.

Thor instinctively catches him around the shoulders, pulling his gown down his neck. There is pale, bruised skin on his shoulder and arms.

‘You’re not better at all, Fandral,’ he says roughly, annoyed.

‘Shut up,’ Fandral pants but he lets himself be placed on the bed again. Hogun is frowning.

‘Those are bruises on your hands, Thor. You’re not well yourself.’

Thor looks up at the man, face sheepish. ‘Just an accident at the site, Hogun,’ he says, the lie slipping out alarmingly easy.

Hogun clenches his jaw, but doesn’t comment. When a phone suddenly rings – sharp and piercing – Thor freezes. Not mine, please, not Loki, please - Instead, it is Hogun’s, who takes it and answers curtly. The voice on the other end is muffled.

A moment later, Hogun’s face crumples. He hangs up. ‘Emergency, more dead bodies, they’re going to give us a report,’ he says.

‘Even on your day off?’ asks Fandral.

‘Yeah, they want the whole force to know what’s going on.’ The man pockets his phone and picks up his jacket from the chair. ‘That means emergency briefing for all recruits before the weekend starts.’ He takes a breath, before: ‘I think it’s a gang war.’

Fandral whistles. ‘Shit, Hogun. Be careful out there. I know you have the gun and badge and all but…’

Hogun nods and waves goodbye before walking out. Fandral looks suddenly exhausted, so Thor makes the appropriate motions to signal he's leaving.

-

xxiii.

Thor sometimes forgets that Hogun is a cop, that he was recruited after high school, trained hard, was one of the best in his class, and is now a full-fledged police officer. Thor sometimes forgets that Hogun has a sense of time, of place, of detail and the strength to do something about it. Thor sometimes forgets that Hogun could figure him out if he just tried and this makes everything the more terrifying.

-

xxiv.

Loki calls him that night – the night gone black and Thor a nervous wreck from Hogun. The news reports two more deaths – no names or other significant details, just that they died from bullet wounds. Occasionally, the wail of a siren will screech past his street. He can’t stop pacing his living room in anxious steps.

A gang war.

Thor stops, breathes, and then tenses when his phone rings.

‘Hello?’

‘Thor, how was your day off?’ purrs Loki from the other end.

‘Just fucking peachy.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Have you started a gang war with those… with the Vanir?’

Loki sighs. ‘You should stop watching the news, it obviously makes you upset.’

‘Why must you involve me in this, Loki? Why?’

‘Shall I leave with the remaining three thousand then?’

Thor clenches his jaw. ‘No,’ he growls out, grudging.

Loki does not reply immediately. There is a pause, then his voice – soft: ‘You should trust me, Thor.’

‘As if you give me any reason to. You would hurt Sif.’

‘But I would never hurt you.’

‘What do you think you’re doing now?’

‘Helping you.’

Thor lets out a startled laugh. ‘By lending me money and then making me… making me indirectly kill people?’

‘This would have happened without you and you know it,’ says Loki. ‘And, you would have killed Thrym without me.’

‘How did you bring me back?’ Thor demands.

‘I called for you.’

He sighs, frustrated and angry and despairing. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Tomorrow, come to the house. Bring three hundred and I’ll give you a check for the next grand in return.’

He hangs up then, and Thor listens to the beeping of the cut phone line, the scream of another siren piercing his other ear. This is how you get caught in a spider’s web. This is how you will be eaten if you don’t do anything.

-

xxv.

Thor goes through his overtime, stops by the bank to get his three hundred and drives hurriedly to the house as the night nears the city. The day will soon fade into the black of night. The cops will start their midnight watch around the city. He shouldn’t be scared but he is because he is implicated in all this. He is part of Loki’s schemes now, no matter how many times Loki might reassure him that Thor has nothing to do with anything at all.

The tattooed man opens the door again and Thor inquires if Loki is here. The man nods, letting him inside.

Loki is dressed in the same long trenchcoat with gloves, the suit and tie showing from the gap between the collar and the buttons. He is smoking at the kitchen counter; mouth around the stick like it’s made of china as the ash drips onto the glass of said counter.

‘You made it,’ he says around the cigarette, a hand disappearing into the inside of the coat before pulling out a cheque. ‘Sit, won’t you?’

Thor warily pulls out a chair and places himself between Loki and the entrance. The tattooed man comes forward, past the blonde man, to stand against the sink behind Loki, watching them both.

‘Thor, this is Kvasir,’ says Loki, waving a gloved hand vaguely in the direction of the other. Kvasir, surprisingly, quirks a smile at Thor, making the curves of his tattoos crinkle up at the expression.

‘Hello,’ he offers in return. He sees Loki place the cheque on the glass and Thor takes out his money from his pocket to place before the other. ‘Here. All three hundred.’

‘Good,’ says Loki, sliding the cheque towards Thor, who quickly pockets it. ‘Kvasir, do you mind counting it?’

As Kvasir picks up the stack and places himself back against the sink, Thor tries to listen for any sounds that the twins are still in the basement. There is nothing but an eerie quiet. There are poison green eyes watching him with that look again – like a revelation has happened but Thor is not a part of it.

‘Do you miss the Vanir?’ asks Loki, his mouth twitching.

‘Have you killed them too?’ says Thor, eyes widening.

He gets a smile in return. ‘Of course not. They’re our guests, Thor. Just because we’re criminals doesn’t mean we’re not human.’

‘Freya said the same thing,’ Thor tells him.

‘It’s a saying,’ shrugs Loki. ‘Thrym is hospitalised, by the way. His ribs are broken, nose crushed, internal bleeding – not severe, of course. You did quite the number on him.’

Thor pauses for a moment, jaw clenched. ‘Is he going to be okay?’

Loki takes a long drag, blowing smoke like a veil between them. ‘He’s going to be fine. Give him a week or two.’

‘I fought you too,’ says Thor, abruptly. ‘Are you okay?’

Perhaps it’s the sincerity behind the words that makes the smaller man’s face go pensive again, lost in thought. Thor waits, though, patiently, for an answer. If he wishes to hurt someone, he wishes it to be on his own terms and not at the hands of that mad part of him – that dangerous, chaotic part.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Loki says finally. He turns his head towards Kvasir. ‘Check the twins. Let them take care of their hygiene.’

Without a sound, Kvasir leaves the money beside the sink before heading into the hallway and down the stairs. There is muffled dialogue and then, a minute later, water rushing. Thor drags his eyes over Loki in the silence. His face is pale, hollows under his eyes and he looks utterly exhausted. Instinctively, Thor stretches his hand forward and he touches Loki’s chest.

His fingers meet no resistance and the poison green eyes are watching him again – fierce and sharp. There are no words exchanged and, eventually, the tips of Thor’s fingers slide down the fabric of the silk green tie. He moves his hand to the left, against Loki's side, and presses.

Predictably, Loki hisses, mouth curling up in irritation and pain.

‘You’re not fine at all.’

‘Of course not,’ he snarls. ‘Thor Odinson the berserkr beat me down.’

‘I’m sorry,’ replies Thor.

‘I know you are,’ snaps Loki, and he takes this as an indication to pull his hand away. Kvasir comes back up the stairs, and when he speaks, his voice comes soft and smooth.

‘I should be off, Loki.’

‘Yes. Thank you for yesterday night,’ Loki tells him, ‘I’ll be sending you two more names. Also, find some clothes for them. I’ll be setting a meeting soon.’

‘That’s soon. It has only been three days.’

‘Thor helped speed along the process the first night. Remember Thrym?’

Here, Kvasir mouth parts in surprise. He quickly composes himself before replying: ‘I’ll be done by Sunday. I’ll send Jarnsaxa with the clothes.’

‘You’re much too good, Kvasir,’ smiles Loki, evidently pleased. With that, Kvasir descends the stairs and the sound of water soon stops. There is more muffled talking, movement, and a faint clink of metal and against metal. Thor sees him come up once more and grab a sweater from the adjacent room before leaving the house altogether. He is silent, all throughout this.

‘He kills for you.’

Loki takes one last drag of his cigarette before crushing it against the glass. ‘You could say that.’

‘I could?’

’He’s my cousin,’ the smaller man replies. ‘Family is always loyal to each other, isn’t it?’

‘Even if they want death?’ Thor voice goes high with incredulity

‘Especially if they want death,’ says Loki. He stands up, and Thor can see now how stiffly he moves, not with that liquid elegance that he had before. ‘I would do anything for my family, remember that, Thor.’

‘Should I be afraid?’ bites back the blonde man.

Loki lets out a laugh. ‘Perhaps, you will meet my family and understand.’

‘Like your berserkr mother?’

Thor sees the other go abruptly still, his face smoothing from amusement to something blank and utterly terrifying. Loki brings his gaze directly upon Thor, the green eyes now dark with something dangerously close to killing instinct.

‘You’ve been talking to the twins, I suspect,’ he says, and his voice is soft and flat.

‘They volunteered the information up themselves.’

‘Did they now.’ He is so quiet that Thor half-suspects he is speaking to himself. ‘Anything else?’

‘You were born with criminal in your blood.’

At this, Loki quirks a smile. ‘So are we all, Thor. Aren’t you the same?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ says Thor.

Loki ignores this admission and begins to move towards the door, readying to leave. ‘Do not presume you know anything about me, Thor. My mother once held this city in the palm of her, admittedly, berserkr hands. If you think you can insult her before me once more, I will most readily break my promise of not hurting you.’

He leaves then, in a flurry of black trenchcoat and angry green eyes, and Thor breathes in the silence, feeling the crinkle of the cheque in his pocket and the knowledge that there are two human beings handcuffed underneath him.

You’ve fallen and you’ve fallen hard.

-

xxvi.

Saturday passes in an uneventful drag. Thor works, goes home, showers, and eats. He leaves a voicemail for Sif to meet him up for breakfast Sunday morning so she can take the next hundred grand and falls exhausted on his bed, both physically and mentally drained.

Sunday comes in a summer haze, bright and humid. The sheets stick uncomfortably to his skin and he can't imagine how Loki is always so composed despite the air in the city. Sif has left him a message to meet at a diner not too far and Thor gets ready quickly enough.

The diner is airy and bright, with wide windows and bright colours. The coffee refills are free and Thor drains three cups to feel anything remotely to being ready for the day. Sif swallows down two platefuls of food as he tries to wake himself, and they split the bill before the issue of the cheque comes up.

‘You have to tell me where you’re getting this from,’ says Sif, voice low and expression serious.

Thor cracks a smile. ‘Some weekend overtime, don’t worry. Just use it however you can.’

‘This is more than enough, Thor,’ she tells him. ‘Especially between the four of us, Fandral is taken care of. I don’t need anymore.’

‘I’ll pay for all of it, Sif,’ he replies. ‘You need to save up for more university courses, don’t you?’

‘It’s going to be fine, overtime will help,’ she reassures him. ‘I’ll get my degree, no problem. And my boss is way more than okay to cover me if I take night classes.’

‘Sif, please, let me help,’ insists Thor.

‘You have brought two thousand dollars to this, Thor,’ she says, with a tone of finality. ‘You can stop. It’s over.’

Thor sits back, and there is a moment of pure clarity.

This is my way out.

‘Are you sure?’ His voice is close to breaking. Repay your debts and escape – leave – away away away from Loki –

‘I’m positive,’ she snaps. ‘Now finish your cold, disgusting coffee and let’s get out of here. Don’t you have work?’

‘Yeah,’ he hears himself say faintly, like coming from a distance, his mind reeling. Vaguely, his brain registers the sounds of reality: the chatter of others, the clink of glass on the table, the hiss of the frying pans, the tinkle of bells as the door to the diner opens and closes and a name – ‘Mr. Blake?’

A wrinkled hand presses on his shoulder and Thor instinctively jerks up, head whipping around to see the new presence.

‘So nice to see you again, isn’t it?’

‘H-Hey,’ blurts out Thor, eyes wide as he recognizes who it is.

‘Oh, won’t you introduce me?’ The old man smiles, his muddied brown eyes glittering.

‘Sif, this is…’ Thor trails off awkwardly, but the old man extends a hand.

‘My name is Ymir, I’m an acquaintance of your friend here.’

Sif takes his hand in a solid grip, ‘pleasure to meet you, sir. Out for breakfast?’

‘For the best waffles in town,’ replies Ymir, and his hand on Thor’s shoulder is the only thing keeping him from booking it out of the restaurant.

The old man lets go of Sif and turns towards Thor, leaning down so he can smell the man’s scent – like herbs and ice.

‘Do tell our mutual friend I’ll meet him only if he brings you.’

Thor feels the spark of anger flare inside of him. He drags his gaze over the man’s eyes, mouth curling up in a snarl. ‘Of course.’

Then, Ymir is pulling away, turning to talk to the waitress that passes by and walking off.

‘He was nice, wasn’t he? But what did he call you?’ asks Sif.

‘I need to go now,’ blurts out Thor, standing up, and Sif watches him, surprised.

‘O-Okay, sure, right, thanks again, see you,’ she says, and Thor is out of there.

The old man knows you. It’s too late.

And Loki’s voice: Thor, it’s always been too late.

-

Chapter Text

-

xxvii.

Thor calls Loki on his way to work. It’s still early in the morning and the answer he gets is muffled shuffling and some half-snarl of ‘the fuck’ before: ‘Yes?’

‘The old man found me, Loki.’

‘Wha – Thor you make no sense,’ sighs the other. There is more shuffling in the background and then a different voice who says, ‘who the hell calls at eight in the fucking morning’ and Thor has a ridiculous image of Loki with bed hair and green pyjamas.

‘You have company,’ says Thor, surprised.

‘Hm? Yes, well, they’ll be leaving soon,’ replies Loki. There is a muffled reply before Thor hears the other again. ‘Now, what are you going on about this early?’

‘The old man you took me to see in that club, he came to me.’

There is a silence on the other end.

‘His name is Ymir,’ says Thor.

‘I know.’ Loki breathes out a swear before continuing. ‘What did he want?’

‘He says he won’t meet you if I don’t come with.’

‘Well, then you’re coming with me. Wednesday, same place,’ says Loki simply.

‘No, I’m out. I am out. I don’t need your money anymore,’ says Thor and there is a satisfaction that settles in his chest at the words, ‘I’ll pay back your two grand and then I’m done.’

Loki doesn’t reply. Thor waits, as he drives down through the city to the construction site, and the silence stretches with each passing mile. There are only small sounds in the background: a thump like footsteps, a whisper of a breath, muffled dialogue and metallic clinks, like spoons or glasses or both. The domesticity that he can hear alarms him.

He sits there, dumbly, staring down the long stretch of road, imagining the scene as it takes place. Loki drinking coffee, eating toast, dressed with slippers, sun on his pale skin – it strikes him in that moment that Loki is human. It is an honest surprise, and a part of him knows, suddenly, that Loki feels. He can also experience the full spectrum of not only emotion, but also situations that life offers. Thor can feel it sinking into his brain now, just now, that – oh, Loki has a life beyond crime, money and blood.

‘I’m sorry.’ It slips out of his mouth without any reason. You’re not his friend, you’re just his tool. Yet, it still feels like the end of something, though he has no idea what. Certainly not companionship. The past two weeks – though they left him exhausted, his head awhirl and feelings a mess – let him to find bits of himself: his morality, as well as his rage.

The silence that stretches before the reply is deafening. Finally: ‘why?’ asks Loki, his voice soft.

Thor is honest: ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come with me on Wednesday and I’ll let you go,’ says the other, his tone suddenly formal. ‘Pick me up where you did last time. Goodbye.’

The long beeps of the phone linger in his ear before Thor finally hangs up.

-

xxviii.

Thor’s week to Wednesday is a haze of anticipation along with work, dinner and catching up on the sleep he had lost over his adventures with Loki.

He can’t particularly pinpoint the anticipation. He has never enjoyed the things he has done with Loki at his side, such as feed hostages, beat up others and indirectly cause the death of at least two people. There is simply no reason whatsoever to have this feeling. Perhaps he is simply eager to get it over with as to rid Loki from his life. Loki, whose poison eyes and sharp smile has brought on more trouble than it was worth. Thor is more than ready to move on with his life, separated from the underworld altogether.

And, yet, you apologized to him. Why is that, Thor? No answer is forthcoming, so he chalks it up to the mood and leaves it at that. Best not to dwell on things that would only bring more trouble. You may feel something for him. Perhaps not friendship, but an alliance. He is like a pillar to balance on when the underworld sweeps your legs out from underneath you.

Thor refuses to contemplate this train of thought.

When Monday slides over him, the news that night is expected though it still makes him feel a bit sick. There are two more deaths and there is now a warning going out to citizens to stay inside where it’s safe when night falls. The gang war is in full swing and the patrol cars circle the streets, always on the lookout. The reporter had added, at the end of her spiel, ‘all murders have been of criminals, often with extensive jail time behind them and relations with a gang named Vanaheim.’

Professional is what Loki would have said, thinks Thor. Only target the ones that need to be killed. Touch no innocents, hurt no bystanders. Thor wonders if the reporter’s addendum is a way of communicating ‘you’ll be safe as long as you have no part in this’.

Tuesday reports no more additional bodies and Wednesday does not either. Thor cleans up and heads out, driving through the ever-darkening streets. The sky bleeds red as the sun spreads its dying self over the horizon. The air shimmers.

It feels like an omen.

-

xxix.

Loki is smoking, gloveless, with the familiar leather jacket, jeans and boots. He pushes himself from the wall he’s leaning on and flicks the cigarette to the cement before crushing it neatly underfoot. Slipping into the passenger’s seat, Thor can see how Loki has regained some semblance of his cat-like elegance, all smooth movement and gestures.

‘You’ve gotten better,’ he remarks, pulling from the curb. Loki smirks.

‘Don’t watch me too closely, Thor,’ he drawls.

Thor clenches his jaw. ‘I brought you two hundred more. It’s in the glove box.’

‘Want to be rid of me that fast?’ murmurs Loki, opening up and counting the cash. ‘Gone cold on me because I had company on Sunday?’

‘Wha – no,’ replies Thor, taken aback by the suggestion. ‘That is none of my business.’

Loki’s tone is light, but the look he directs the blonde man is heavy and calculating, ‘would it please you to know it was a man?’

‘Oh,’ is all Thor can manage. Truly, there had never been space in his head for thoughts like that. If it hadn’t been for Sunday, he could’ve still seen the other in some cold, distant way – always avoiding the truth. The truth that he is human and that he feels and that he has sex with men? Yet, the last piece is not particularly a surprise. It is more apt to call it a quiet revelation.

He comes back to the quiet, mocking laughter of Loki. ‘Disgusted? Intrigued?’ He does not look at Thor, choosing to close the glove box with the money still inside.

‘It doesn’t matter to me,’ says Thor, voice firm. ‘Take the money.’

Loki’s heavy gaze lands upon him again, the green orbs tracking his silhouette as if trying to cut him apart and open him up. This is the Loki you’re used to, isn’t it? The cold one. The calculating one. No humanity found here in the poison. Thor swallows audibly – apprehension streaking down his spine. The smaller man finally swings his stare away, saying, ‘after the meeting.’

It is a relief and Thor gladly answers, ‘alright.’

A few minutes later, Thor finally pulls over, parking beside the curb only steps away from the entrance. Loki gets out, and Thor can’t help but see the man beside him for the first time. He is a person who needs sleep and food and companionship and has sex. Loki is suddenly – terrifyingly – closer to Thor than he previously thought.

Now he sees Loki, drags his gaze pointedly over the white neck, the slight, lean torso and the hands. Loki wears no gloves and Thor can describe them as nothing more than spider fingers – long and thin. He’s attractive, with his sharp angles and precise, smooth movements, realizes Thor in the back of his mind.

Yet, the thought is crushed under the anticipation that settles in his gut when they reach the door, with the bouncer looking impassively on as Ymir’s men open it up to their knocks and search them for weapons once more. This time, Thor knows exactly who to look for and Ymir is there, seated at the head of the table with two chairs on either side of him pulled out.

‘Laufeyson,’ says the old man, and there are eight other men in the room to guard him, counts the blonde man. ‘Come, sit, you too, Mr. Blake.’

Loki sits stiffly, spine straight and hands pulling out a cigarette in which he flips between his fingers. Thor doesn’t dare get comfortable in his seat either, muscles bunched up with tension and mind alert. Ymir smiles at him genially.

‘It seems that you have taken the twins instead of killing them, Laufeyson,’ begins the old man, and his hand makes a vague gesture to the man standing behind him. The man walks to the liquor cabinet and pours out two fingers of something clear into three glasses. Swiftly, he places them in front of the three men. Neither Loki nor Thor make a move to touch it.

‘Warm yourselves,’ invites Ymir, taking a sip from his own.

‘I want you to set up a meeting between I and the Vanaheim triumvirate in two weeks,’ says Loki, his voice sharp and cutting.

‘I don’t think so, Laufeyson. The Vanir are out for your blood. Don’t think they don’t know who took their beloved heirs.’

‘So they came to ask you, is it?’ Loki drags his tongue on the edges of his upper teeth. ‘What did you tell them? The Jotnar took them or the Aesir?’

‘I told them that Laufeyson took them. They can make their own assumptions.’

‘How nice of you.’ There is a pause – where the air hangs heavy and Thor can hear the slow wheels of conspiracy turning through each of these two men’s minds. He contemplates the glass in front of him, thinks it might be vodka, and spiked at that though Ymir seems sober enough.

Finally, a voice – and it is the old man: ‘Appease them before they kill you, Loki.’

Thor starts at this sudden use of name, eyes watching the smaller man closely.

Loki mouth parts – a beat – then, ‘I will not.’

Ymir turns his gaze towards Thor suddenly, his muddied brown eyes clear and alert. ‘How have you been, Mr. Blake?’

Loki growls. ‘Leave him out of this.’

‘Though, that woman you were with certainly did not call you that, did she?’

Thor can feel the tendrils of rage and shock shift restlessly in his stomach. ‘What did you do to Sif?’

The old man raises his hands up, palms showing, in a gesture of surrender. ‘My, we simply talked.’ His smile is frosty and threatening. Thor wants to kill him. ‘Now, what is your name, and answer for yourself this time.’

‘Thor Odinson,’ snaps the blonde man.

Ymir laughs softly then, before taking a sip from his drink. ‘Indeed. Son of Odin.’

The phrase makes Loki bristle, and he immediately says, ‘set up the meeting for me, two weeks time.’

‘I am not your slave, Laufeyson,’ says Ymir, though his voice is still calm and quiet, ‘I will not do what you ask.’

‘Do you wish for this bloodbath to continue then?’

‘Am I in harm’s way?’

Loki makes a noise in the back of his throat, indicating his dissatisfaction. ‘Tell me of the Vanir’s plans then. So far, my Jotnar have avoided being hurt.’

‘That is not what I hear of Thrym,’ remarks the old man, eyes on Thor even then. ‘The Vanir wish to find you and torture you for any information, hold you for ransom, kill all your filthy Jotnar that come for you and then, finally, put an end to you.’

‘Tell me something new,’ sighs out Loki.

‘I would hypothesize that they amass their forces. Four deaths in two weeks are not good for the ranks. The triumvirate will reassemble and then come out for blood. The smaller gangs are also becoming restless. They see this disturbance as an opportunity to take a standing in this city. End this quickly, Loki. I will repeat myself: appease them.’

‘I will not give them anything nor anyone as some prized possession for them to use and abuse. Likely they’re too stupid to know the worth of what they have in their hands.’

‘So, you wish to convince them that killing their higher ups is necessary to take down the bigger enemy?’ asks Ymir, his face grave, drink forgotten on the table altogether. Loki flicks the cigarette through his fingers without pause, from one finger to the next to the next and back again – in a seamless motion.

‘I give them proper leverage, do I not?’

‘Perhaps. Have you hurt the twins?’

Loki rolls his eyes. ‘Of course I haven’t. Now, set this meeting up.’

Ymir’s mouth twitches at the tone before shifting to talk to Thor. ‘If this meeting is to take place, then I would have you go as well as Laufeyson.’

Thor blinks, surprised. ‘I – no – I can’t. I’m not –’ He struggles for the proper wording. ‘I am not part of this. I am here because I have to be.’

‘Then you must go,’ says Ymir simply.

‘No,’ says Thor, voice loud and firm. ‘No, I’m done. I refuse.’

Loki watches this exchange with a face that is blank from all emotion and expression. His eyes glitter coldly in the light and his cigarette skitters across his spider fingers and back again like a nervous insect. He is still, his attention on the two before him and the words that fly in between. There is a beat of silence, and Thor thinks he might choke from the overbearing tension in the room. It weighs onto his chest ruthlessly, making his mind turn into a haze of ‘No, no, no, they can’t make me, they can’t, I’m going to get out, it’s over, goddamnit, I’m out – ’

Loki’s voice now. Soft. ‘If you don’t come, I die.’

‘What,’ breathes Thor, feeling the air rush out of his lungs.

‘I die, Thor,’ repeats the smaller man, and the cigarette stills between his fingers, his eyes go half-hooded as he thinks. ‘I will go into this meeting and I will die. Of course, not immediately. The Vanir will do whatever is in their power to get my knowledge and let me bleed out to my death in a miserable, dirty heap – starved and broken.’ Loki’s eyes flicker up to meet Thor’s wide eyed gaze. ‘You would let me die.’

‘No,’ blurts Thor, ‘no, I refuse. You won’t fucking die, Loki, I’m supposed to be done.’

‘Odinson, you have always been a part of this,’ says Ymir, ‘if you go with Laufeyson, he will survive. If not, then death is marked for him.’

‘Fuck you,’ snaps Thor, but his voice is once more that despairing, desolate tone that he has become alarmingly familiar with.

‘I will take that as agreement.’ The old man finishes his drink. ‘Come, Laufeyson, I give you your saviour.’

‘Helpful as always,’ replies Loki flatly. ‘How nice. Now, once more, I want a meeting.’

‘Of course,’ says Ymir.

Loki takes this moment to stand, and Thor follows suite. They move around the table to reach the door on the other side of the room.

‘I knew you’d come around,’ remarks the smaller man, only steps away from the exit before he turns to toss a wave at the old man. Thor also glances back; only to see the smooth, blank face of Ymir.

‘Do not mistake yourself, Loki,’ and his smile is winter cold, ‘I do this not out of some loyalty to you.’

Loki raises his eyebrows in mock-surprise. ‘You know the meaning of loyalty?’ The tension grows heavy in the room once more and Thor instinctively takes the smaller man’s arm, moving him forward to the door surprising ease.

Ymir’s words echo until they’re out of the room: ‘I am loyal but to one, Loki, and you are not her.’

-

xxx.

‘Meet me back at the house in two days,’ says Loki once they’re back in the truck. Thor grips the steering wheel hard, knuckles going white.

‘I’m done,’ he says tightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the other slide his gaze over his form as if assessing him.

‘You’re awfully stubborn, aren’t you?’ remarks the man. ‘You once called me, sounding almost close to tears, of how you were responsible for two deaths. Remember?’

Thor refuses to answer.

‘That was completely indirect. One can say inevitable.’ There is a pause. ‘You will be directly responsible for mine.’

‘Why don’t you just take some other henchmen, Loki? Why me?’

Loki’s mouth parts in surprise. ‘Ah, so the great oaf thinks.’ He licks the edges of his teeth, eyes flicking to the window as the cityscape passes by. ‘Because you’re mine.’

‘What?’

Yet he receives no answer as is expected. It is too heavy a question to ask Loki – who seems to want to escape this atmosphere even now. As Thor turns around the corner, he can see the other suddenly tense up, peering through the dark of the street down the pavement.

‘Stop here,’ says Loki, abruptly, a hand at the handle of the door. Thor has half a mind to ignore him but he is struck with the idea that the other man will have no qualms throwing himself out of a moving vehicle. He pulls over at some nameless block and Loki leaps out with a surprising lightness.

Thor watches the lithe form melt with the long shadows of the building as he walks into an alley and then disappears. A minute passes, then another. It is soon evident that he is gone.

Sighing, he pulls away and goes home.

-

xxxi.

The next morning at work shows no signs of Thrym, nor does the next. The Friday looms over him, and Thor is determined to hand over the two hundred Loki forgot to collect in his glove box.

He doesn’t have to go, he knows, he owes nothing to Loki. He has no debt except the two thousand and he can leave and never come back. He doesn’t have to do anything for him anymore. He is free, goddamnit, free to do what he wants and live life as he was supposed to – without gangsters and mob bosses and the fine, intricate strings of the underworld making him spin and leave cuts on his skin.

I’ll die, says Loki in his head, and the words carry more weight on his shoulders than anything should. Thor feels his heart scream out in desperation to stop this event, to do all that is possible to let another human live. He has always been a creature of feeling and of sentiment. It is something he should regret but never does.

When he ends up in front of that house again, where the sky has gone dark and the street is quiet, Thor cannot deny that he does, in some vague way, have an attachment to Loki – while it might not be something positive like friendship, there is still something there. This is Stockholm syndrome, isn’t it? Perhaps.

Kvasir opens the door up with a smile, tattoos crinkling around his cheeks. There is a flush to his face, and his hair is mussed, his brown eyes glittering in amusement. ‘Hello,’ he greets, stepping aside. His hand is holding a beer bottle, there is music playing somewhere from the kitchen and someone else’s footsteps echo throughout the house.

Thor enters, wary, and peeks into the kitchen, seeing the radio on the table and a woman, half her body hidden behind the open fridge door. There is no sign of Loki in the room, nor can he see any jacket or gloves of the man. It’s unnerving.

When the fridge door closes, he can see the woman in full – long-legged in jeans and boots, a sweater overtop a tanktop and long, dark hair pulled up into a ponytail. She is pale-skinned, as all the other men he’s seen Loki with, and her eyes are narrow, like a cat’s, her mouth thin and cheekbones sharp.

Thor is suddenly extremely self-conscious of his jeans and plaid shirt.

‘Jarnsaxa, how nice to see you again,’ purrs Loki from behind him, sweeping in silently. The woman smiles at him, unscrewing the lid off a beer bottle and taking a swig.

‘Loki,’ she drawls, walking past Thor, who is stock-still, to take a seat at the table. Loki presses his gloved fingers against the meat of the blonde man’s arm, who shudders back to life to turn along with the touch, standing awkwardly in front of her.

‘You brought suitable clothes?’ the smaller man asks her, and gets a nod in return. He shifts his attention to Thor, ‘take Jarnsaxa with you to the twins. Dress them to see if it fits. If not, we’ll need other clothes.’

Jarnsaxa smiles, white teeth glinting under the glow of the kitchen lights, and Thor feels warm under his collar. He swallows, seeing the sleek gesture of her getting up, leaving the bottle on the table and grabbing a duffel bag underneath her chair. Loki steps beside him as she looks back to see if he will follow, a hand on Thor’s shoulder, fingers tight against his skin. The hand feels like it is going to burn through his shirt onto his skin, leaving him claimed for all to see. It makes prickles appear underneath his clothes – a disconcerting feeling.

‘Do be quick,’ says Loki to the woman, and Thor shifts under the grip until he can get away, padding after the woman as they go down the stairs slowly.

Their footsteps are just as loud as he remembers it – signalling each exit and entrance with a certitude. When the room comes into view, Thor sees a mattress on the ground, blankets and pillows scattered around. There are dirty dishes and books placed beside said mattress and a pile of laundry in the corner of the room. The twins are not chained to the pole.

He hears it then – the sound of rushing water. Glancing to the corner where the bathroom is, he can see the faint outlines of two figures behind the curtain, washing themselves up.

‘Freya, Freyr,’ calls out Jarnsaxa, and there is a pause in movement before the shower shuts off and Freya pushes the curtain aside.

Thor sputters at the sight of Freya, nude and wet, her breasts full, hair a dark cherry colour when wet, and a patch of red at her abdomen. He hears Freyr sigh loudly from behind her before extending an arm around her waist and pulling the curtain to cover her.

‘Hey there, Jarnsaxa,’ smiles Freya, and it is all teeth and some sort of wanting.

‘I brought you clothes for when you meet daddy,’ she replies, holding up the duffel bag.

‘Let me finish, won’t you?’ Jarnsaxa nods, flopping onto the mattress as the shower turns back on.

Thor shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other before stiffly taking a seat beside the woman. She glances at him, chuckling.

‘Freya has no shame.’

‘So I noticed,’ he replies, eyes tracking the movements behind the curtain. The shadows intertwine with each other fluidly, without a pause of hesitation. There is muffled dialogue beneath the pounding of the water, maybe a laugh.

Human. They’re all criminals, and they’re all human.

Jarnsaxa notices him watching. ‘There have always been rumours about the twins of Vanaheim. That they fuck.’

This startles him out of his contemplation. ‘I – really?’

She shrugs. ‘They’re so close, who knows. I personally don’t care.’

‘I see,’ he says lamely, blinking at the figures now, as if trying to decipher them. ‘I…I guess it shouldn’t matter. Consenting adults. None of my business.’

‘Exactly,’ agrees Jarnsaxa with a nod.

The shower comes to a halt. A hand peeks out from behind the curtain to grab the towel hanging from a hook. There is shuffling and movement – before Freyr’s voice: ‘put it on, sister’ and Freya steps out, the cloth wrapped tightly around her torso.

‘Show me what you got,’ she says, approaching them. Freyr, naked, his hair lying in tangles down his back, seats himself on the edge of the tub from the inside, body turned to keep watch on what happens.

Jarnsaxa opens the bag and pulls out a bra and panties, tossing them up to Freya, who catches them swiftly and with ease. Do be careful of her hands, remembers Thor. Yet, here she was, walking around unchained and dangerous.

Freya drops the towel and puts the garments on – coloured purple, which seems to delight her.

‘My favourite colour,’ she informs Jarnsaxa, with a sharp-toothed grin.

‘What a coincidence, mine too,’ the woman replies, holding her gaze steadily. Thor shifts his sight to the wall, staring at the plaster intently as not to intrude. It feels personal – everything here. Humans and feelings and the gray scale of morality.

Jarnsaxa spreads the clothes from the bag onto the mattress – a blue blouse, a green button up along with a black suit jacket, black trousers for both, extra undergarments, and two pairs of dress shoes. Freya tosses the towel she had to her brother, who covers himself before picking up what is for him. They dress quickly and efficiently, unashamed in front of the company.

‘The blouse is too big,’ remarks Jarnsaxa when Freya finishes.

‘The suit jacket as well. The shoes could do to be a size smaller, but it will do,’ says Freyr, buttoning it up, looking striking as his red hair spills over his shoulders. The woman nods in return and lets them strip out of the clothes, handing them back to her.

Freya, clad solely in her underwear, seats herself beside the other, the long line of her bare leg pressing against Jarnsaxa’s denim-clad one. Sex and feelings – they’re people. Criminals, but people. It is a jarring realization that picks at Thor. He doesn’t want to admit to this, because if he does, he might begin to extend the same amount of sympathy to them as he does to the rest of the world. It would best if he didn’t recognize them as what they were – people like him. If they stayed on the black side instead of sliding into the long, gray stretch of morality.

A greedy thought, but a thought all the same. Thor sighs, seeing Freyr lean down as he picks up a shirt from the floor, his red hair falling over his face revealing the curve of his spine and something coloured like bruises on his shoulders blades. It is familiar, in some vague way that Thor can’t place at the moment. Green and blue with a slice of purple.

He glances over at the women beside him. Freya is talking to Jarnsaxa with an obvious smile on her mouth, eyes attentive and gleaming. It feels like he is intruding so he follows the smooth movements of the brother dress himself in a loose pair of jeans and long white shirt. Freyr sees him watching and smiles, a suggestive quirk to the corner of his mouth.

Thor suddenly can’t breathe and immediately looks away.

He is saved by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. There is thump beside him but he ignores it in favour of watching Loki come into view. The man lets out a short, abrupt laugh, his eyes trained behind Thor. Turning to see what it is, the blonde man is struck by the sight of Jarnsaxa on her back and Freya hovering over top – on her hands and knees, hair falling like a curtain to hide her face.

Her neck and shoulders are revealed to have faint freckles and Thor can see the same pattern of green and blue and purple on her skin that he saw on Freyr, and he realizes it isn’t bruising at all, but a tattoo of ocean waves, a mixture of so many shades he can hardly discern one from another. The colour of the whole tattoo is faint, appearing not as a distinct image but something that blends from the pigment of her skin to the actual illustration.

Loki regains his composure, eyes still glittering with mirth, and smirks. ‘Your brother won’t mind, Freya?’

Freya flicks her head upwards, a predatory smile on her mouth. ‘A celebration for the clothes to see daddy. And Freyr is always welcome to join, isn’t he?’

‘Would that make it an indirect sin, then?’ comments the other. Freya frowns.

‘I see no sin in sex, Laufeyson. ‘

His tone is surprisingly light: ‘and incest?’

Freyr steps in then: ‘I will not have your judgements.’

‘Shut up, brother,’ snaps Freya. ‘Laufeyson can think what he wants. What does it matter if I fuck my brother or if I don’t? None of your fucking business.’

Putting up his hands in mock surrender, Loki shrugs, ‘true enough. I will only hope that you take on that same mentality for others.’

‘Oh? Know about more incestuous, sinning twins, then?’ mocks Freya.

‘Your daddy might be one,’ replies Loki.

Thor expects violence from this – some sort of lunge to tear Loki’s neck out with teeth for such an accusation against loved ones. He has himself tensed, watching the sleek, shifting muscles of the twins to spring into action and kill. Yet, yet, all they do, when the statement is out in the open, is laugh.

‘Daddy knows what fucking is?’ snorts Freya.

‘Njord wouldn’t know where to find his cock, much less where to put it,’ says Freyr, ‘it seems your assumptions lie false.’

‘Perhaps,’ Loki concedes, ‘though that doesn’t dismiss the fact that he got it up and out long enough to get you two from it.’

Freya leans back to straddle Jarnsaxa’s waist, her spine straight as she watches the man with sharp, unreadable eyes.

‘What do you want?’

Here, as Thor expects, Loki gives a reassuring smile, as if nothing is amiss, and simply says, ‘simple gauging your love for daddy.’

‘Why would that matter?’ snaps Freyr, taking a step forward.

Thor immediately stands up then, ready for any sort of attack, and it makes the red-haired man retreat in the same step. He can feel Loki’s gaze burn in his skin and he has no explanation for this instinct to suddenly defend.

‘I will come back with more clothes in a few days,’ says Loki after a beat. Thor glances at him and sees his gloved hand gesture to follow. They go up the stairs quickly, leaving Jarnsaxa down below with the twins, and Thor wonders if he imagines the sound of skin and breath and a moan – before he’s channelling to get it out of his head altogether.

-

xxxi.

‘Just take it,’ says Thor, handing over the two hundred to Loki roughly.

They stand in the kitchen, Kvasir out of sight somewhere. Loki is watching the sky out of the window – black as it is, punctuated by a plane and streetlights. He seems grave and pensive – thinking something out, though Thor could never know what.

‘Loki,’ he says, trying to catch the other’s attention. The man blinks slowly before taking the pack of bills and sliding them in his pocket, not bothering to count them. Thor can see he has lost the other to his thoughts.

There is a thump from below – faint, yet evident, and Thor can’t help swallow at the image of what must be happening in the basement. Sexual creatures – no, not creatures but humans. People. With a skewed morality and a scale of right and wrong that seems eternally tipped to one side, but with the psychology and feeling of regular human beings.

Thor watches Loki, tracing the angles of his face and the black of his hair, wondering how much of a human Loki could be. How many feelings and wants and needs were beneath the white skin, fleshing him out as less of an image and more of a person.

Inadvertently, he begins to consider Loki as a sexual being, just as those in basement. Loki and his men, Loki and his women, Loki and blood on his white skin and pupils blow open – oh.

Thor coughs, cheeks flushed.

This seems to catch Loki’s attention. He slides his gaze over the other.

‘Go home. Don’t take overtime this weekend. Sleep.’

Thor has half a mind to ask ‘how do you know about the overtime’, but it is a futile question. He nods, and then, without thinking, claps his hand on Loki’s shoulder once.

Loki takes a step back, eyes wide and face openly expressing surprise.

Thor flounders. ‘Ah – take care, I guess, I will – bye.’

He gets a rather dumbfounded nod in return before he leaves.

Later, he will admit to himself that the shock did leave a rather satisfying feeling.

-

xxxii.

Thor goes to see Fandral the next day, mid-morning, smuggling in a pile of breakfast food that would cause a heart attack via grease-induced artery blocking. Thor wishes he regretted it, but he really, really doesn’t.

Fandral has colour on his face, a book in his hands, as he leans back against the pillows, looking better than Thor has seen him yet. Hogun, on the other hand, is sitting in the chair beside the bed, his head cushioned with his arms as he flops onto the sheets.

‘Is he sleeping?’ murmurs Thor, placing a large, plastic container in Fandral’s lap. He nods and opens it, grinning.

‘It’s quiet here,’ replies the other, already picking at the omelette and fried potatoes. Hogun shifts and whines, before he props his chin onto the bed, eyes dull with fatigue.

‘Hey,’ he says, voice low and scratchy.

‘Hey,’ greets Thor, seating himself on the second chair on the other side of the bed. He snatches a piece of potato and pops it in his mouth. ‘You look like shit.’

‘How apt,’ sighs Hogun. ‘I feel like it too.’ Fandral snorts between bites, working through his toast.

‘Night patrol is simultaneously boring and exhausting. Hard looking for people in pitch-black alleys.’

Thor raises his eyebrows in a gesture of sympathy. ‘Want some omelette?’

Hogun shakes his head, closing his eyes. ‘The gangs are obviously making moves, but we can’t go forward. There haven’t been any major movements. Grimnir hasn’t brought in any shipments we could possibly attempt to inspect. All we’re doing is driving around, wasting gas, peering through bars and backstreets for any suspicious people.’

‘Grimnir?’ says Fandral, ‘you mean Grimnir as in the railway shipping company?’

‘Among other things,’ sighs out the other. ‘The CEO’s some low-profile millionaire who makes half his money off the streets, apparently.’

‘Huh, well, I guess a dude gets bored looking after trains.’

Hogun rolls his eyes at the comment. All the while, Thor takes this information with an unwavering interest and tries for more. ‘So, he’s the leader of Vanaheim?’

The man shrugs. ‘Maybe. There’s tons of gangs in this city, he could be the leader of any one. But, I mean, with the money the guy has, he’s probably the leader of a big one. The top three that we know of: Asgard, Vanaheim and Jotunheim.’

‘A new gang could be killing the Vanaheim,’ says Fandral, dropping pieces of fried potato into his mouth at regular intervals. ‘Like you said, tons of gangs, tons of suspects, right?’

Hogun makes a sound of exasperation in the back of his throat. ‘I doubt a new gang could get a stronghold over the city’s underworld. There haven’t been any new gangs since at least decade back. The small ones have been established for a ridiculously long time for some reason.’

Thor contemplates this. ‘So, then, this gang is going for power.’

‘Which one, though? Svartalfheim, Niflheim, Alfheim? Tons to pick from.’

‘Being a cop sucks, dude,’ says Fandral in sympathy, licking his fingers clean. Thor nods in agreement.

Hogun shoves his face back into the bed, clearly too exhausted to keep talking. It takes a minute for his breathing to deepen then, slowing down to sleep. Thor takes this as his cue to leave, and he ruffles Fandral’s hair – which irritates him to no end – before heading out.

-

xxxiii.

The next day, Thor sleeps in for what feels like the first time in ages. He lies in his bed until noon, feeling the lethargy in his bones and wanting nothing more but to never move. Eventually, his stomach protests at the emptiness inside and he forces himself to get up and eat something.

Checking his phone as his bread heats in the toaster, he sees a missed call from Loki and decides to put it off after a few hours of eating, watching bad Sunday tv and sorting through his mail. At mid-afternoon, Thor drapes himself over the couch and presses dial.

‘A call back? I didn’t expect one,’ says Loki from the other end. ‘How was sleeping?’

‘Wonderful,’ replies Thor with a surprising amount of honesty.

Loki lets out a breathy laugh. ‘Then come to the house after dinner. Eight-thirty.’

‘To see me once more?’ teases Thor, and he wonders if he really has succumbed to Stockholm syndrome – joking around with a man like this.

‘Hm, you caught me,’ drawls Loki. ‘Till then.’ He hangs up.

Thor sits up, mind racing, wondering when the hell he had ever developed any sort of attachment, especially not after he threatened Sif, yet he cannot help but see Loki as a three-dimensional person now. Compassion, Thor. Be blessed with compassion, he imagines his mother would say. Now, he knows he would reply: but it has become a curse.

-

xxxiv.

There is a niggling in his mind that tells him Kvasir lives in the house for he is always answering the door, and Thor can think of no one better but a goddamn professional killer to guard two criminally-inclined twins from escaping.

That being said, Thor is always taken aback by Kvasir’s rather warm greeting of smiling. There is Loki in his leather jacket, beckoning him downstairs and he follows, hearing a conversation between Jarnsaxa and Freya all the while.

‘Why would you not use a Glock?’ He listens to Jarnsaxa say, her tone shocked.

‘Because you need something smaller,’ replies Freya, ‘can’t stick a fucking Glock into a purse!’

‘Get a damn holster then.’

‘And wear it where? Under my push-up bra?’ Freya giggles.

As Thor comes down the last step, he sees Jarnsaxa fall back on the mattress, laughing, shoving at the other woman’s shoulder. ‘Shut up! You don’t even need a push-up bra!’

It prickles at his skin – the normalcy and casual space they’ve come into, and he tries his utmost to push it away. Too late, they’re close to you now, in the way that all people are. Thor tightens his jaw and cocks his head towards Loki when said man makes a clicking noise with his tongue, as if expressing approval.

‘So, the new clothes fit,’ he comments, as Freya arches her back in her new shirt and Freyr, seated beside her, inspects the sleeves of the suit jacket.

‘Yes, it seems they do,’ replies Freyr, ‘When shall we be meeting Njord?’

Loki purses his mouth in contemplation. ‘In two weeks. Do you have lack of anything?’

‘Freedom,’ bites out Freya. Her brother snorts.

‘Two weeks,’ smiles Loki genially. ‘Now, would you like to hear a story?’

The words obviously do not go over well. Even Thor muffles a chuckle as the other three openly laugh. Loki licks the edges of his teeth before narrowing his eyes and continuing.

‘It might interest you.’

‘Does it have death and sex?’ asks Freya, looking unimpressed with the situation.

Loki’s smile widens. ‘Tons.’

‘Humour him, sister,’ says Freyr, watching the other closely. Thor can feel the tension between the occupants of the room suddenly increase. It is like an electric current through the air – snaking its way through his nerves and synapses. He is tense now, though a curiosity teeters in him, wanting to know how everything will pan out.

‘This city was founded years ago, where desert met water, and so sprung a meeting place and eventually a village. Soon after, it grew to a town and to a city. The businesses, though starting small, did manage to grow, under the helpful hand of one such as ourselves. A criminal. An underworld man.’

The audience say not a word, weighing each statement as to see where the purpose of this was. Thor is distinctly aware of some sort of recognition in their eyes. They know this story, he realizes, though perhaps not the wording of it, yet they understand that this is their history.

Loki continues without missing a beat, ‘and so the man founded a group of others called, as you may know, Jotunheim.’ Freya makes a noise in the back of her throat but does not interrupt. ‘That being said, as all successful enterprises are, a rival is to be had. I present to you, the new gang, Vanaheim.

‘Throughout the following decades, these two ruled the streets and had the occasional altercation. There was always an uneasy tension between the two as competitors are, however, it is to be established that both were successful in their own right, through various businesses and, of course, exploitation.’

Here, Loki pauses. Thor can see how his eyes are glazed and distant, as if remembering something from long past. The twins and Jarnsaxa are stock-still, and perhaps this was the first time that their history was worded in a way as to comprehend the enormity of the legacy they carried on their shoulders.

‘And then, Jotunheim was slowly, quietly, crushed by one of their own. They fell apart as one does when one trusts a betrayer. Vanaheim, of course, did nothing to stop this, flourishing in the new markets being opened up and the new territory to be grabbed. However, through their greed, they never saw the rise of the Aesir. A new rival had turned up. Asgard, led by a man who went by the name All-Father.’

Loki clenches his jaw tightly, teeth gritting, before continuing. ‘Asgard brought something new into this city. More rivals. Smaller ones. Various ones. To chip away at the sectors the Vanaheim had and slowly eat their land inch by inch. Alfheim, Niflheim…’ A breath. ‘Svartalfheim, amongst others. But you would know that part quite distinctly, wouldn’t you?’

The question is rhetorical and it makes the twins narrow their eyes in both agreement and suspicion. Loki’s purpose is not clear here, yet they listen all the same – with an attention that is almost disconcerting.

‘Yet, the Jotnar are not to be forgotten. Through the sharp, accurate and bloodthirsty aim of their new leader, they rose to a brief, glorious period of resurrection and complete control. This city shivered and shuddered over the numerous dead bodies, but it prospered all the same. Here, with the decimated ranks of Asgard and the already rather weak Vanaheim, Jotunheim held tight. However, the All-Father was not to be trumped, bringing together an alliance – though uneasy – between Vanaheim and himself, as it was quite clear he could not stop the prosperity of the Jotnar by himself.’

Loki gives an inaudible sigh. ‘And how does it end? It ends like this – the Aesir triumph and reap most of the rewards, leaving Vanir empty-handed. The Jotnar are now of smaller rank but still hold some power. What one must not forget is that Laufey is not dead. She can rise again, and she will – bloodier and merciless. However, is it worth the Vanir’s time to ally with the All-Father, who shall take it all again? Or perhaps Vanaheim will choose something else. Someone else.’

The silence stretches. Jarnsaxa is stone-faced as she suddenly stands up, leaving the room. The twins seem tense and do not move nor speak in response.

Loki gives a bow, however unnoticed by the audience, ‘I shall leave you to ponder that. Come, Thor, we are done here.’

-

Chapter Text

-

xxxv.

The silence in the house is oppressive. Thor can feel the tension and apprehension come off Loki in waves, though he can only see the stiff outline of the other’s back. The unmoving lines of his shoulders, the tendons straining in his neck.

‘Loki,’ Thor says, quiet, and Loki simply turns around, eyes once again gone pensive.

‘I will have to appease them to get their alliance.’ It is as if he is talking to himself - his voice a low murmur that fills the empty space between them with a mood of anxiety – and Thor can do nothing but flounder between reassurance and silence. ‘I will need you.’

Thor blinks, surprised, but Loki is not looking at him – he is staring at some spot over the corner of the blonde man’s shoulder, once again calculating and recalculating what must be done. Then, slowly, as if in a dream, Loki reaches a hand out and presses his fingertips against Thor’s arm, gaze now startlingly clear, and focused on Thor himself.

‘I will need you to protect me.’

Thor’s mouth parts but no words seem to extend from him. He stands, feeling the digits like a fire threatening to burn his skin. Loki and his men, Loki and his women – no, no, stop.

‘Yes,’ he says quickly, distracted by the thought. In response, Loki does not smile but his shoulders go slumped, as if in relief.

‘Then I will see you one last time before the meeting,’ he informs the other, before his palm presses gently, albeit briefly, against Thor’s arm and he is turning around in a blur of black and white, disappearing through the front door.

Thor shivers at the instant of heat – feels it linger, creep, settle in his spine. Wonders why he ever thought he could escape.

-

xxxvi.

The week drags on. Thor’s life is a routine of sleeping, eating, working and taking care of basic hygiene till Friday. There are no calls from Loki and Thor takes this opportunity to take what he rightfully feels is a small break. His escapades with Loki leave him drained, not only with sleep deprivation but with emotions flying all over the place – his disgust, caring, curiosity – all of it rushing through him and leaving him exhausted by the end.

Fortunately, the news stays blissfully silent of any other deaths. The gang killings have apparently ended for the moment, though the police do not dare go lax on their patrols. Thor ponders calling Hogun to see if he can get more information from the man’s exhausted and unusually open mouth. So often had Hogun never mentioned a word about what he did, and yet, Thor realizes, sleep deprivation can open a person up.

He files this information for the future, in case.

He spends the nights talking with Sif and Volstagg on the phone, catching up with them and what they’ve been doing, getting updates on Fandral’s improving health and discussing how to tell the blonde man that the fees are done and paid for – the reason why he hasn’t been confronted with a bill in his stay yet.

Eventually, he agrees to a late night round at the local bar with Volstagg on Friday, and meets him there.

The man, loud and boisterous, almost a match for Thor in drinking and eating, gives him a hearty slap on the back when they see each other, and he immediately pays for the first round of beer and snacks.

‘You’re getting fat, Volstagg,’ teases Thor, taking a swig of beer.

‘It is muscle, Thor, muscle,’ defends the other, laughing, ‘I’m sorry that you do not have any of your own.’

They grin at each other, and eventually, the conversation simply flows. It is familiar and Thor has never been so thankful for something so normal and nostalgic like this in a long time. It is away from the turmoil of feelings that Loki causes in him – away from the creeping, dark corners of this city where blood seems to run down the cracks into the pavements and stain it all.

Here, now, there is Thor and there is his friend Volstagg, and it is the furthest moment away from the underworld that he can get, so he savours it.

The night passes, quickly, the bar crowding as stragglers from other places come in – and soon, it strikes midnight. The door tinkles as people enter and leave. The beer keeps flowing. Someone has put the football game rerun on. There is muffled cheering from the corner. The bartender laughs, the music hums from the speakers in the corners, and it is a hearty, warm mood in this place.

Then, as all blissful moments, it ends at twelve-thirty when Volstagg sighs and admits he has to go. They say their goodbyes, with a fierce hug and smiles, and Thor sits back down at his table, watching his friend nod to the bartender before heading out. Looking out the window, he can see a taxi pull up and Volstagg gets inside.

Thor remains sitting at the table, nursing his last beer, savouring it before he has to leave. The rerun is coming to a close, but the crowd does not seem intent on disappearing. The murmured conversation ebbs and flows and Thor bathes in the calm. He watches patrons enter through the door – a middle-aged man, though fit, with a bright smile and dark hair. The man grabs a beer in exchange of cash at the bar and gazes around, leaning casually against the edge. When he spots Thor, he smiles and waves, starting to come over.

Thor is overcome with surprise, trying to sort out where he’s seen the man before. Tall, dark haired, bright eyed, mid-thirties with a smooth face.

Finally, it dawns on him when the man sits across from him at the table, gently clinking beer bottles together before taking a sip. That warm smile that you’ve become familiar with, Thor.

‘You don’t have your tattoos,’ he says as Kvasir laughs into his bottle. The man swipes the pad of his thumb across his jaw line and shows it to Thor.

‘Makeup. Might scare a few customers with my tattoos,’ he explains. Thor notes the lines around his eyes and his mouth. The subtle sag of skin and realizes, with a start, that Kvasir might actually be older than mid-thirties. Forties.

‘God, man, how old are you,’ Thor whistles, low and astonished. Again, Kvasir laughs – easy and loose.

‘Fourty five,’ he grins, taking a long drink from his beer.

‘Wow,’ replies Thor. ‘That’s. Okay. You’re in shape.’

‘Have to be for what I do.’

He can’t stop the wince come over his face. Kvasir catches it, ‘sensitive topic?’

‘No, no, well.’ Pausing, he contemplates it. ‘I just don’t get it. How you can do it.’

Kvasir hums in response. The bar is still in full-swing. Thor tries to focus on the muffled voices in the song that creeps from the speakers, flicking his gaze over to the bartender and back again to the man before him – trying to see if he can trace the tattoos that had lined the pale face.

‘I guess I do it because I have to,’ says Kvasir slowly, watching the peeling label on his bottle. ‘I’ve never known anything else.’

‘Yeah, but, still, you’re killing,’ tries Thor.

‘I know that much,’ admits the other. ‘I do. And I don’t think I could justify what I do.’ Any trace of the grin and cheer in his face has been replaced by solemnity. He seems to struggle for the words. ‘I don’t particularly enjoy killing, if that reassures you. To be honest, I don’t feel anything.’

Thor watches him, trying to understand. ‘Then why do you do it if you don’t feel?’

Kvasir gives him a smile then – gone tight at the edges where his eyes glitter in some sort of pain. ‘Out of love, Thor. I do it for the one I love.’

It takes a minute for the statement to sink in. ‘I - Loki, you love Loki.’ He doesn’t make it a question. There is a moment of something in his stomach, like a coiled beast, rising up to blot out any coherent thoughts – why do I need you because you’re mine mine mine – possession goes both ways –

Yet, the older man shakes his head, and a mild sense of relief floods into Thor at the gesture. ‘No, not Loki. I do not work for Loki. I work for his mother, Lady Loki.’

‘Lady - really?’

Kvasir laughs. ‘It’s a kenning. Loki is a spitting image of his mother. No, her name is Laufey.’

‘The beserkr,’ murmurs Thor to himself, tasting the word on his tongue.

‘Oh, did Loki tell you that?’ asks Kvasir, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Yes, his berserkr mother. The one who conquered this city by colouring the streets red, as you may know. Or perhaps not. It’s gone old now. Ended but half a year before Loki was born.’ He takes another drink. ‘I was so young back then, and I stumbled my way through to her. She’s vicious, but a good judge of character. She knows people, as does her son. From day one she knew I would do anything for her.’

‘You helped her kill her way up then?’

Kvasir muffles a laugh against the throat of the beer bottle, now almost empty. The server comes around and Thor orders another one for his companion. Only half a minute later and Kvasir has, in his hands, a new bottle.

‘My thanks,’ he says, a soft smile on his lips. ‘Now, to answer your question, I did help her bloodthirsty crawl upwards to glory. Though, help is not the right word. Perhaps…’ He pauses, before his tone changes to something close to earnestness, as if wanting the other to understand his point. ‘The thing is, Thor, is that when a person knows they own you, complete and utterly, they will use you to your complete and utter potential. I did not just help, I learned under her all the arts and skills that permit me to kill.’

Thor sits back in his chair, fingers tight around his own drink, as he tries to comprehend it. Kvasir is not mad – he does not come off as insane in any way, but there is something in the way he speak of Loki’s mother. Treats her with simultaneous formality and familiarity. You should understand, though. It’s so easy to kill for love. Isn’t Thrym proof of that? His blood is your love for those around you.

He takes a breath. Then: ‘would you die for her?’

Kvasir does not hesitate. ‘A thousand times over.’

-

xxxvii.

Thor drains the last of his beer as Kvasir nurses his own. It is nearing one in the morning, and Thor mentions, quietly, that he should leave.

‘Yes, perhaps it would be best,’ replies the other. ‘I do hope I didn’t bother you.’

Thor laughs, ‘I think I got it now. Maybe a little bit.’

‘But you don’t approve,’ points out Kvasir.

‘Not one bit,’ agrees the blonde man. He places a few bills on the table. ‘For the drinks.’ There is a pause. ‘The twins… They’re not handcuffed anymore.’

Shrugging, Kvasir quirks a smile. ‘The house only has one exit, the front door. All others have been reinforced and locked. And having a professional assassin guarding that one exit is enough of a deterrent, no?’

‘And tonight?’ asks Thor.

‘Thrym and Jarnsaxa gave me the day off,’ he replies. ‘Thrym is out and healthy now.’

‘Good,’ smiles Thor, and he waves goodbye before leaving.

-

xxxviii.

Saturday comes in a bleary-eyed way; the sun smudged by clouds as the temperature wavers before settling to uncomfortably warm and humid by mid-morning. It is eleven am, the sheets are starting to stick in the worst way to his skin and Thor hates his phone for ringing.

‘What.’ His voice is flat. The weather is gross, his bed is gross and he feels gross.

‘My, someone doesn’t sound happy.’

‘It’s Saturday.’

‘So it is. Glad to know you can keep track of the days of the week. Impressive.’

Loki taunts slip through the speaker with some familiar ease that Thor wants to ignore but can’t, because, goddamn, what if he actually likes Loki?

‘What do you want?’ His tone threatens to border along whining.

‘Come out for lunch with me. I want you to meet someone.’

Thor has half a mind to say ‘like your mother’ but thinks better of it. He sighs, peeling off the sheets from his torso and cradling the phone to his ear. ‘You can go out in sunlight?’

Loki makes a muffled noise – laughter. ‘Did I ruin a vampire fantasy for you?’

It’s too early in the morning for this. Thor groans. ‘Where?’

‘Pick me up at this address. I’ll direct you from there.’

Looking at the pile of sheets, he wonders if Loki had to peel himself out. Then redirects all thoughts to taking a shower because he could not – would not – let himself crash into the other like this. There’s no space for sex here. Or emotion. Or compassion. Too late, too late, his mind coos. He can’t decide whether this is worse or not.

-

xxxix.

There is no sense in denying that he wants to see Loki out in light, dressed not in his leather jacket (way too hot in weather like this) but something more casual. There is curiosity to the sight of his skin under the sun – to see if he would go red, to see sweat bead at the edges of his hairline, the colour of poison green under natural light.

He pulls up at a busy little café on the corner of some uptown street, idling self-consciously as people of obvious wealth walk past, dressed in clean, nice clothes and shoes. Does Loki live in this sort of place? It makes him wonder about the middle-class house that the twins are in. A neighbourhood he could get comfortable in. Does he want you for your need of money? Thinks you’re easy to use because you don’t know anything better? Quickly, Thor thinks on other things.

From the open door of the café, Loki comes out, holding out two cups and a bag of something cradled in the crook of his arm and side. In a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved shirt – coloured some off-white – Loki still looks stupidly well dressed when casual, though the blonde man himself is in jeans and a black t-shirt. Thor pushes the passenger door open as the other clambers in, handing over a cup as he plops the bag onto his lap.

‘I thought we were going out for lunch,’ remarks Thor, pulling away from the curb. He takes a sip of the drink and tastes iced tea. ‘This is disgusting.’

‘Not going to get you beer when you drive, moron,’ replies Loki, pulling a muffin out and splitting it in half. He takes the drink from the blonde man and shoves the food in the hand instead. ‘Eat now. She’s an awful cook.’

Thor takes a bite of the muffin and gags. ‘What the fuck –’

‘A little bit of fiber won’t kill you,’ sighs out Loki, the other half of the food disappearing almost instantaneously down his throat. He holds up the iced tea – now with a straw – in front of Thor’s face, who drinks it down greedily, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. ‘Now, finish it up. And turn left at the stop sign.’

‘I hate you,’ mumbles Thor, before trying to quickly chew his way through the bran muffin.

‘That’s nice. Now, turn right,’ replies Loki, but he’s hiding a smile.

-

xl.

The house is coloured white with soft, blue accents and a black-tiled roof. The grass is a bright green, the tree in the yard tall and obviously old. The steps leading up to the front door are bordered with small red flowers and the curtains pulled back behind the open windows.

They are in an old neighbourhood. It is well-established and expensive, located near to the main city core, but the houses themselves are two-storey, humble structures, built years and years ago from long-lasting materials. There is something oppressively homely about the house that makes Thor ache for the time when he lived with his mother, long ago, before she had died.

‘This is nice,’ he offers to Loki, who stashes the garbage under his seat. ‘Wait, no, you’re not leaving that shit in here.’

‘I’ll throw it out after,’ reassures the other, ‘she’ll kill me if she knows I’ve eaten beforehand.’

When they end up at the door, Loki takes a breath before knocking.

It is answered by Loki.

Or so Thor thinks, blinking rapidly. No – not Loki but some female version of her. With a thin, red lips and fierce green eyes, Thor thinks he’s stumbled upon his older sister. The black hair is longer and lush, falling in loose waves around the woman’s shoulders, and – if he looks closely – there are lines by her eyes and softly defined around her mouth. Old then – forties.

‘Loki,’ she says, and her voice is husky and edged with affection. Her gaze drags over Thor, and he feels like he’s being stripped down to his essence – where everything is exposed for scrutiny. Kvasir’s voice in his head: She’s vicious, but a good judge of character. She knows people, as does her son.

‘And you are the other. Noble, good-hearted Thor.’ Her voice rolls over his name with a slow ease, like molasses, and it makes his mind go blank, unable to respond, feeling confused and exposed.

‘Yes, now let’s go inside,’ Loki says, seeing his mother step back to let them in. His spider fingers wrap loosely, gently around Thor’s wrist, tugging him into motion, and the blonde man follows into the cool, shadowed depths of the home.

The inside is clean, the long stretch of hallway with a scattering of pictures. The dining room to the left is bathed golden from the sunlight coming through the long window, and the living room to the left has deceptively comfy looking sofas and a tv. There is radio somewhere, echoing some blues tune mournfully through the air.

Laufey leads them through the hallway to a kitchen on the right. There is another large window, open so an occasional breeze sneaks through. The table in the corner is round with four chairs and the kitchen is large itself. She gestures for them to sit down and Loki takes to a shadowed corner as Thor sits beside him, right in the slanting square of light.

Laufey is dressed in some loose, gauzy green dress, a white sheer underneath. Her bare feet are delicate, with bird-like ankles and pale skin. Thor is entranced by the shine of her hair, like an oil spill, coating down her back. She is tall as well, like Loki, though Thor often forgets this as he towers over the other as well. Vaguely, he understands Kvasir. You would have loved her back in her day, with a sharp smile and sharper eyes; young, smart, ruthless. Like Loki.

‘What would you like to drink, Loki? Thor?’ Laufey walks through her kitchen without a sound, only the soft rustle of her dress and hair.

‘Water is fine,’ replies Loki and Thor echoes the sentiment.

‘I did not know you had the courage to try my cooking again, Loki,’ mentions Laufey, her fingers – spider fingers – wrapped around the glasses.

Loki coughs. ‘I came here for some advice, mother.’

Thor looks over, surprised. There has to be jab at the man’s pride here somewhere, he knows, and it is shocking he admits it in front of his mother and Thor himself.

‘So uncle tells me,’ she replies, placing the now full glasses on the table. She goes to the fridge and brings out a salad in a Tupperware container. Soon, it’s spread out on three plates. Loki is cringing. Thor finds this unintentionally hilarious.

‘I don’t see why you don’t simply accept what he tells you,’ Laufey continues, going back to the fridge as she speaks. ‘This is your mess. I am head of Jotunheim still, this is true. But it wasn’t a Jotun that kidnapped the Vanir twins.’

The smaller man bristles. ‘I am your son, always.’

‘I know.’ She is spooning out some cold pasta on the plates beside the salad. Then, from the fridge, comes a plateful of vegetables and dip. ‘You are Laufeyson. My son. Yet, this hangs only over your head. I refuse to fight your battles.’

‘I am not asking that,’ he says, a touch aggressive. ‘Ymir tells me to appease them. I refused. I still refuse. I will not give them what is rightfully mine.’

‘How about four lives, in exchange for taking four of theirs,’ suggest Laufey. The plates are placed in front of them on the table. Thor warily observes his own before taking a drink of his water. ‘Or why don’t you give them this one. You won’t mind dying for my son, would you, Thor?’

She is smiling at him – eyes crinkling and mouth parted oh-so slightly, showing a glimmer of white teeth like a predator. Thor steels himself.

‘No,’ he says simply.

Laufey laughs. ‘No, I thought not.’ Thor watches her pick out utensils and bring them over, handing them out before seating themselves at an angle so she can see them both. ‘Why did you bring him here?’

Thor glances over at Loki, curious for the answer.

Loki sighs. ‘Because I’ve involved Thor in this without a way out, so he should see this through.’

She looks at Thor conspiratorially, ‘he brings you for moral support, really.’ She is grinning unabashedly, amused.

‘I refuse to answer to this,’ says Loki loudly.

However, Laufey sobers up, her grin fading to a more pursed look as she thinks. Then: ‘have you struck a deal with the twins?’

This makes Loki curl his lip upwards in disgust. ‘This is why I am here.’

‘What do they ask of you?’

Thor can see how the other tries to avoid the gaze of his mother, his hands placed on the table, framing his plate of untouched food, as his jaw clenches, tendons in his neck straining. The mood has swiftly descended to tension and the silence stretches without any end in sight. Laufey, though, sits through this hesitation with perfect stillness and patience. She watches her son with a soft, mournful look in her eyes. Thor remembers the blues on the radio – how the trumpet echoes through the air and dies off.

Finally, after Loki has taken a shuddering breath, ‘they wish to break the rock on which Asgard and Vanaheim’s alliance is forged upon.’

‘Ah,’ says Laufey. She sits back in her chair, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression on her face. ‘Ah, I see. They wish to kill Kvasir.’

Thor can’t help the plea that escapes: ‘You can’t let that happen.’

The sharp green eyes are upon him once more, sizing him up. ‘Pray tell, why not?’

‘Because he’s one of your own, because he’s done so much for Jotunheim,’ replies Thor, almost incredulous at the question. Because he loves you.

‘But what is one death to an alliance to destroy the All-Father, isn’t that right, Loki?’ asks Laufey, her gaze slicing into her son. ‘Anything for your ultimate goal, isn’t it?’

Loki matches his mother’s stare with his own. ‘Anything, mother.’

‘You’d have him killed,’ blurts Thor, staring. ‘You would actually kill Kvasir for this.’

Loki makes no indication of hearing him. Laufey pulls off a tight smile. ‘Of course you would. He’s only here to ask my permission for this death.’

‘Will you give it?’ he asks tightly.

‘Why should I? He is mine to do as I like,’ snaps Laufey, and Thor sees how her eyes go to a darker shade of green as her temper flares. Loki’s bersekr mother, remember.

‘I could ruin the All-Father, mother,’ Loki replies sharply. ‘Don’t you want that? Haven’t you always? Pay him back for his sins against you.’

‘You would stain your hands with Jotnar blood for this? Have you no pride?’

‘I’m doing this for you!’

‘DON’T – ’ and Laufey stands up, her long dark hair framing her angered face. She growls at him, before taking a breath. ‘Don’t place your own ambition upon me, boy. I was not born yesterday. I will not have you thinking that you can do whatever you like in my name.’

‘You think I want to do this?’ snarls Loki in retaliation, standing up himself. ‘You think I would like to kill Kvasir? I wish nothing for anything else.’

‘So why are you here? What do you want?’ Laufey takes more breaths, bringing her rage under reins. She seems so much bigger now, her authority and feral body language making her a larger force than before.

‘Kvasir will die,’ says Loki, simply, with a tone of regret. ‘I only tell you this so as not to surprise you and to make sure that I will still have your support.’

‘You child,’ spits out Laufey. ‘You know there is an alternative. You know what you could have given to them.’

Loki looks away, teeth bared. ‘Your time is over, mother.’

‘How dare you,’ starts the woman but she is cut off.

‘You must let go of what is yours and let me have what is mine.’

The laugh that erupts from Laufey is edged with fury. ‘Arrogance will be your downfall, Loki.’

‘As it was yours?’ retorts the other.

She clenches her jaw, also turning away. ‘Do what you want, Loki. Take what peace there may have been in this city and crush it between your fingers. See what arises from the dust.’

‘A new era for us,’ tries Loki.

‘For you. I have done my time in Eden with uncle and Kvasir.’

Thor speaks up then. Throughout this, he had watched with fascination and a slight fear. The exchange – charged with secrets, blood and power – had sent chills down his spine. Everyone is a danger unto themselves, he knows now. Yet, he cannot let this go on – there is something in him that doesn’t want this to happen at all. The conversation in the bar, Kvasir’s warm smile, his earnest face when speaking of his mistress: ‘Don’t you love him?’

Laufey closes her eyes at the question, her frame going still. Then, without a sound, she drifts out of the kitchen altogether, disappearing into the depths of the house. The food sits untouched on the table. Loki is grimacing, shoulders tight.

‘She’s not coming back,’ he tells Thor and moves to leave. Thor follows, feeling almost dazed and confused. They leave the house, closing the front door softly behind them as they head down the path to Thor’s truck.

Once inside, Thor can’t bring himself to turn the truck on. The key hangs in its slot, waiting for the push to ignition but he feels drained. Loki himself is sitting beside him, looking pained. His mouth is a line of hard regret as his fingers dance uncertainly along the edges of his sleeves.

Suddenly, he moves. It is a quick, awkward dance of Loki swinging his leg over Thor’s body as he straddles him. Thor is too stunned to react, hands pulled to his chest as the other – so thin and long and angular – settles himself across the man’s lap. Loki’s spider fingers card through Thor’s blonde hair, nails scraping along the edges, and he leans close, till Thor can see the distinct dark eyelashes of the other and –

‘What are you – ‘

‘Please.’ And his voice is quiet, strained, perhaps a little broken. It quiets Thor instantly. It doesn’t come as a surprise when Loki finally closes the distance between them. His mouth is needy and desperate, licking Thor open with greedy strokes of his tongue. He tastes like coffee and that awful bran muffin and something metallic.

Thor tries to respond gently, biting at Loki’s bottom lip, but he is overwhelmed when the man makes a whine in his throat and ups his tempo even more. He kisses with a ferocity that Thor cannot ignore and starts to match, gripping Loki’s hips.

Later, he will try to figure out why Loki kisses him with such despair on his tongue. Why Loki nails dig into him with no willingness to let go. Why Loki is pressed so desperately against him as if moving away will let Thor escape in a wisp of smoke.

Loki kisses with some pained urgency, as if to drown himself in Thor’s soul through his mouth, and it makes Thor want to hold the other close to his chest, to keep Loki as his own in some mindless, needy way that he could never explain.

There will be ten fingerprint bruises on Loki’s hips as Thor sucks on the other’s tongue, feeling tremors rake down the man’s spine, and Loki shoves against him, teeth clicking together, and god, is it ever frantic and good and everything a kiss should be.

Eventually, Loki pulls away, quickly, mouth red and wet, looking utterly wrecked, and rests his forehead in the crook of Thor’s neck, fingers fitting around the man’s shoulders.

‘Loki,’ he says, and a shudder passes through the man’s body. ‘Let’s go home.’

Through some manoeuvring, Loki is back in the passenger’s seat, face still pensive though his hair is slightly mussed and his lips swell. Thor drives down the pavement as the air around them ripples under the sun.

-

xli.

Loki doesn’t speak the whole ride, so Thor swings the truck into the direction of his own apartment. He parks and gets out, and Loki follows. Soon enough, they’re both in his apartment as he makes coffee and watches the other man, still silent, lie on his couch, as if to take a nap.

Thor brings the coffee over and places it on the table beside Loki.

‘I said I would protect you,’ he tells the smaller man. This seems to rouse Loki to reality, as he turns to look at the other.

‘I know,’ and then, ‘let me sleep.’

Thor nods, going to his room to pull off a pillow from his bed. He places it on the floor beside the couch in case Loki would want it, then decides to leave the apartment altogether. He calls Sif when he is out the door and spends his afternoon walking the streets alongside her, talking and enjoying the weather, before he leaves her at work around four.

When he comes back, the coffee cup is empty and Loki is nowhere.

Thor had expected nothing else.

-

xlii.

On Friday, Thrym, now back to working, tells Thor in a wary voice to meet at the house at nine. Thor watches the familiar motions Thrym makes – two steps back, muscles bunched up, eyes sharp and watching. It is the same motions he has been subjected to every time he has lost his temper in front of someone.

Thor nods, sighing, and offers another apology to go along the ones he has repeated for Thrym over the week they have worked on the site together. It seems to fall on deaf ears but it gives him an inkling of hope that Thrym might drop his paranoia, though he knows he deserves it all the same.

After work, Thor goes home, showers, dresses, eats a quick dinner, and heads out.

The news is still blissfully silent. The streets are long and dark, the sky a shimmering highway that threatens to drown the land underneath. Humidity seeps through the cracks of pavement and the house looks a bit more ominous here, now, when Thor can feel the change in the mood here – the two weeks are up and they will now meet the triumvirate.

-

xliii.

Thrym, Jarnsaxa and Kvasir mill in the kitchen as Loki sweeps through, throwing orders in his trenchcoat and suit. Thor is dressed as casually as the rest of them – jeans, sneakers, blue t-shirt, but Loki has himself and the twins dressed formally – button up shirts, trousers and shining shoes.

In stiff silence, Freya sits on the mattress as Jarnsaxa lines her lids with eyeliner, making her mouth blood red under the lipstick and dusting her cheeks a soft pink. Freyr's drying hair is brushed back into a high ponytail as his sister’s hair spills over her neck and shoulders. They are both severe and beautiful, and Loki makes a sound like approval, before quickly handcuffing Freyr to Thrym.

‘What the he – ’ starts Freya but one of her arms is also wrenched back as Thor feels the cool metal closing around his wrist. The twins, both bound, scowl – murder in their eyes.

‘You agreed,’ says Loki, deceptively gentle, and they both don’t say a word.

Soon, they are all clambering into three vehicles – Thor’s truck has Thor, Loki and Freya. Thrym’s truck has Thrym, Jarnsaxa and Freyr. Kvasir drives alone, behind them.

Handcuffed to Thor, Freya can do nothing, settling in the backseat of the truck, as Loki turns on the ignition, eyes flicking to the mirror. ‘Relax, Thor, I can drive,’ he smirks. Thor glares back. ‘Not a scratch, Loki.’ He gets a chuckle in return and proceeds to mirror Freya’s sulking as they pull away.

The drive lasts twenty minutes. Freya has the window rolled down to smell the familiar air, the perfume of the summer gardens and the rotting garbage in the streets. ‘Oh,’ she sighs out, pleasure evident on her face and Thor watches her with infinite curiosity. There are distant sounds – screeching trains, sirens, music, cars, talking, screaming, yelling – ‘I missed this,’ she murmurs, so wonderfully human that Thor has to remind himself who she is.

Then, they enter the warehouse district. Loki navigates the narrow, long alleyways between each giant shed, the rumbling engine too loud in this silent neighbourhood. There are other cars coming into view – half a dozen at least – parked alongside the sides of these warehouses, and Loki pulls over, parking. Thrym’s truck is behind them and Kvasir soon swings around the corner to join.

Once they’re all out, Loki takes the lead and starts off in the direction of a warehouse whose door is already swung open and wide. There are dim lights inside.

Thor can see the inside once they step past the threshold, noting the familiar two-storey structure of all warehouses. Catwalks span the upper portions of the wall, where men are standing, dressed in jackets and holding guns. The warehouse itself is swept clean and empty, three people, flanked by three men with guns around them, stand in the middle.

The middle one is a man, dressed in a long, beige trench coat. He is old – many lines on his dark skin, with eyes that are hard and black like river stones, and long, white hair, swept back from his forehead. On each side are two women, both standing straight and tall.

One woman is pale, dressed in simple grey trousers and a white button up shirt. The sleeves are rolled up and she is holding a cane. Thor can tell she is also aged, from the fatigued look in her eyes and the involuntary downturn of her mouth, her dark hair streaked with white.

The second woman is dark-skinned like the man. She, also, is dressed in grey trousers, complimented with a black button-up shirt. Mirroring the other, her sleeves are rolled up to show discoloured skin – like long, thick scars.

When, finally, Loki has them standing in front of the others, the two women smile and nod their heads in the direction of Kvasir, who appears at Loki’s side. ‘It has been a long time,’ they intone.

Kvasir nods in return. ‘Nerthus,’ he says to the darker one, ‘Skadi,’ he says to the other. The man in the middle seems disgruntled at the lack of acknowledgement. He clears his throat loudly.

‘And you, Laufeyson,’ he says, his voice rough and deep.

‘Yes, Njord, and me,’ replies Loki. He pulls out a key from his pocket and hands it to Kvasir. Soon, the man has the handcuffs unlocked and the twins stand, free.

‘Freyr, Freya,’ says Njord, gesturing them to come forward. They do, steps confident. Thor glances at the catwalks above them, sees the guns pointed at Loki and his company. He swallows.

‘I return to you your heirs,’ says Loki, arms swinging out, wide and welcoming. ‘Unharmed and healthy.’

‘And four dead, let us not forget,’ says Skadi, her eyes pale and hard like pearls. ‘We do not like your methods, Laufeyson. You will have to pay the blood-money for such actions against us.’

‘In fact, I see no reason as to not kill you now,’ remarks Nerthus, whose long white hair frames the grave expression on her face.

‘I will offer you something if you do not harm me,’ says Loki, still easy and smiling at them.

‘Oh?’ laughs out Njord coldly, ‘better than your head on a pike? You have inflicted a great wound upon our pride, boy.’

‘So I give you an opportunity to do the same.’

Thor can see the calculating gaze upon the twins’ faces – the way they watch each exchange with unwavering interest. The deal – they had made a deal, but what was it?

‘I would rather kill you, I must confess,’ drawls Skadi, a hand gripping the head of the cane before she tugs and a blade appears in the gloom, glinting. Thor immediately goes on edge, fingers twitching. The spike in tension is noticed and she smiles at him. ‘Oh, a new bodyguard, I assume?’

Loki does not spare Thor a glance. ‘I offer you a deal. I have killed four of your men, and now, I ask of you to kill four of my own.’

The words have an effect. Njord’s eyes widen and the twins smirk as it falls into place. And one death is Kvasir. He is going to die. Thor can’t help but look at Kvasir, see the man’s passive face as he stands, spine straight, hands behind his back, reacting with only a blink at the statement. Has Loki told him he’s going to die? And who else? What are you doing? He wants to scream.

‘You would stain your hands with Jotnar blood before you sacrifice your own life?’ Nerthus sounds disgusted. ‘You are not what your mother was. Your mother had honour.’

Loki clenches his jaw. ‘Do you accept or not?’

‘Most definitely,’ laughs out Skadi, sliding the blade back into the cane sheath. ‘Killing you would not bring those four back, I can admit. I will gladly tear out your honour, pride and power instead.’

It is only the presence of the gunmen on the catwalk that prevents Thor from punching Loki – he can’t believe this is what is happening.

‘I admit, for myself,’ starts Loki, almost apologetic in tone, ‘that I have a few conditions for this offer.’

‘Why should I entertain them?’ snaps Njord, though he seems curious enough.

Ignoring the outburst, Loki continues. ‘We do this next week, on the Friday. Here. But no gunmen and no bodyguards. Only the Vanir twins shall have guns, none of you or us. I shall bring myself and my four Jotnar. I believe I get a right to these as I have brought Freyr and Freya back, dressed and unharmed, do you not think so?’

‘We do not negotiate with honour-less swine like you,’ says Nerthus, face a grimace. Njord holds up a hand to silence her.

‘You do not wish witnesses upon this ruination of your honour?’

‘I did not bring witnesses to this, only your gunmen walk the catwalks,’ points out the smaller man.

‘You do not enjoy their presence here,’ clarifies Skadi. ‘I can accept this. I wish to savour the sight of your pride bleeding out into gutters on my own as well.’

‘You are a fool,’ retorts Nerthus. ‘I wish for my gunmen here. And I wish to do this now. Laufeyson stands with three of his swine to slaughter now.’

‘I count four, sister,’ replies Njord. ‘The two men, the woman and Kvasir. Your bias is showing.’

The woman grits her teeth. ‘I believe Kvasir is too honourable to die at the hands of the pathetic and spineless. As does your wife, brother.’

Skadi hums. ‘Kvasir is old blood and keeps with Laufey. I do not have particular wish for him to die as such.’

‘Your ridiculous sentiment overreaches your judgement,’ snaps Njord. ‘Best to kill that which is a true danger when the opportunity is arisen. I shall take these conditions, Laufeyson. Evidently, those that you bring is your most trusted. I shall expect the same company when you come to kill them, or the deal is off.’

‘My thanks,’ drawls Loki, ‘it is done. On the Friday, at the same time. Only the triumvirate and the twins. Swear upon your honour, as you seem to have so much.’

‘I swear,’ says Njord, loudly and clearly – voice bounding around the rafters.

‘I swear,’ says Skadi, laughter in her voice.

Then, grudgingly, Nerthus succumbs. ‘I swear.’

‘And I swear upon the honour of my mother that four shall die, and Jotun blood will spill,’ says Loki.

The twins cackle – a chilling ring that haunts Thor even after they turn and leave the warehouse. Even after the rumble of the truck’s engine seems to drown out any noise hereafter and Loki drives them back to the blonde man’s apartment.

When they have parked, Loki immediately turns off the engines and grabs Thor by the collar and kisses him with a viciousness that alarms him. There is something here – whispered in the air they drag into themselves and each other – where Thor can feel the shaking in Loki’s frame, as if terrified or excited, it is hard to tell.

And when Loki pulls away, lips red, and scrapes his teeth down the long line of Thor’s neck, tongue lapping at the salty sweat there, there are words that seem to come, breathy and invisible, like ‘want’ and ‘goodness’ and ‘trust’ and –

‘Trust me, trust me,’ says Loki in his ear before he bites down and Thor has his fingers clamped on the man’s arms, mouth finding pale, breakable skin on the other’s neck and marking him as his own.

‘Please, god – Thor, Thor –’ a litany in the cramped, overheated space of Thor’s truck, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the blonde man’s shoulders as he is pressed against the side of the driver’s window, ‘so fucking good – why –’

There comes no answer, only Thor, who can’t even process what is happening, just the hot skin under his mouth, the lean, pliant body under his own, an arching back as Loki tries for more and more, the tension in their bodies pouring out in bites and kisses and scrapes, bruises left on each other’s skin as if it will somehow echo the pain of what will happen in a week – ignore it, ignore it, ignore it –

Eventually, Loki captures his mouth again, starting off frantic before easing back into something slow and languid and wholly unfamiliar. His hands smooth down Thor’s back, pads of his fingers skirting over the bones of his spine and holding him. Thor’s own grip on the man’s arms slide upwards, cradling the thin, long neck as he pulls away, watching the blown open eyes of Loki.

They’re both panting and hard, but neither makes another move for more.

‘I need to go,’ says Loki, except his voice is hoarse and ruined, the green of his eyes now a faint ring around his pupils. Thor’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and swallows, sees how the flicker of tongue catches the other’s attention. He should laugh, but he feels drugged.

‘Okay,’ manages Thor, who sounds utterly wrecked as well. Somehow, they both get out of the truck and Loki adjusts his coat before clenching his jaw and disappearing down a dark street, leaving Thor standing alone in the air.

This is just a distraction for him, y’know. He can’t bear the thought of killing Kvasir, so he tries to drown it with touch, with heat, with you pressing down upon him like a force that he could die under. Stop caring, Thor, you need to stop caring.

Yet he can’t; and it will be this that ultimately ruins him.

-

Chapter Text

-

xliv.

Loki does not expect things to fall in place so dangerously.

He can taste it – in the air, right before his fingertips, like the crackle of electricity before a storm – the event he has been preparing for between Vanaheim and Jotunheim. All because of him. All through Loki’s precise movements, negotiations and sacrifices.

Kvasir, however, is not what he ever expected to let go of.

It was inevitable, being raised under the stern but loving roof of Laufey, that seeing Kvasir so often and speaking with him and knowing him would lead to some sort of relationship between them. Never had it ever descended into paternal though – always him and Kvasir had skirted the edges of father-son and settled for uncle-nephew instead. Between the two of them, it was common knowledge that Loki and fathers had never gotten along very well.

Kvasir, however, was not uncle material. He was a killer, hopelessly infatuated with Loki’s mother to the point of insane obsession, though it was kept very well concealed. And through Kvasir – so unfailingly polite yet unyielding – Loki did not learn of boyhood activities such as how to play sports or ride his bike (he learned that later, with his sparse friends) but of the art of weaponry. Guns, blades, swiftness, fear.

Loki can still hear his voice, can still feel a hand on his wrist, long fingers around the bone, curling the smaller fingers around the handle of gun – or perhaps a blade or perhaps something as innocuous as a fork. So cool and calm, running over him like spring water, his words an endless stream: ‘To kill with a blade, slice long and deep. To kill with a gun, shoot once, pause, twice. Never more. Messy and impractical.’

And Loki learned easily, wonderfully, under his uncle-mentor.

He traces his history as such:

At twelve, Loki knows how to take apart a gun, clean it and put it back together with a chilling efficiency. By fourteen, he can hit the bulls-eye at the shooting range. By sixteen, he can ease through crowds, leaving nicks in people’s sleeves with his blades curving from his palms. By eighteen, Loki knows how to take apart a human body through well-aimed kicks and punches. By twenty, he is almost as good as Kvasir.

Twenty-five now and the only thing that separates him from Kvasir are dozens of bodies. Loki has never killed a man. He has let others, but never himself – with his own fingers on the trigger or his thumb pressing down upon the blade.

Yet, here, now, he may have to learn how.

It is impossible to deny how it makes him sick – the sheer thought of killing his mother’s lover? Or, perhaps, toy would be more apt. Steal away Laufey’s toys and break them, but keep your own close, isn’t that right? Loki would know. Loki will not hand over Thor. Thor Odinson is his in more ways than one.

With an impartial stare, Loki gazes at his own empty apartment, peeling off his gloves and coat. So sparse and white – the walls blank and furniture a soft, pastel gray. The table, made of glass and metal, so clean that it hurts to look at it. Thor’s home – though – oh – pictures on walls, comfortable, old couch, a coffee table with notches and scratches, the mug of coffee with the chip on the rim, and him – permeating throughout the whole place – the smell of him – soap and dust and ozone.

It doesn’t help him, thinking of Thor now, so he sifts through his thoughts to what is needed:

How to kill a human. How to kill someone you love. How to kill.

Loki scowls. He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t want to think about anything right now. He wants to drown his thoughts somehow – be it through violence or sex or Thor’s teeth scraping down his throat with an unapologetic roughness that makes him arch and keen. Just white noise and heat to distract him so thoroughly –

His phone rings and it is Kvasir.

‘I’m outside,’ he says.

Kvasir comes in, smiling softly, eyes gentle, and Loki wants to strangle him, shake his shoulders, hurt him but not – god no – kill him.

‘So, I have come to make my peace,’ says Kvasir, once he arrives. Loki watches him drape his jacket over the back of sofa, and wandering slowly through the living room, reaching the window to part the curtains so the skyline of the city peeks through. ‘I wish I could say that I was okay with your decision, but I see the bigger picture.’ He turns, silhouetted by the faint light from the street and Loki can’t see his face, nor does he want to. ‘How will you do it?’

‘Do what?’ he asks roughly, trying to force it down, away – he still has seven days, damnit, he doesn’t have to think about it now.

‘Will you let them kill me? The twins?’ Kvasir’s voice is so light, gentle. He walks into the adjacent kitchen, fingers trailing on the glass table, leaving no fingerprints. How like him, muses Loki. ‘Or will you shoot me myself? Or perhaps another way?’

‘I don’t want to do this,’ tries Loki, a hint desperate.

‘I know, Loki,’ replies the other. ‘So, if they do not shoot me, how will you do it?’

‘I don’t… I don’t know,’ he grits out, tense, feeling like his insides have somehow crushed into a tight little ball of anxiety and regret and despair. Stain your hands with Jotun blood. Traitor.

Kvasir takes a seat at the table, hands on the table, palms facing upwards, and head tilted to look out the window. The apartment sits at four storeys, the building itself on a gentle hill, where it is easy to see the long skyline of the city and still catch the faint glow of the streetlight. It illuminates his pale skin, casts a golden glow upon him, shadow pooling into the lines upon his face, his brown eyes, so like Ymir, glittering. It makes him peaceful, at ease, angelic – the old man who has found his contentment in the world.

‘Have you talked to mother, then?’ asks Loki, turning away to grab something to drink. Something that burns, makes him light-headed and blessedly empty.

‘You can always tell,’ replies Kvasir, closing his eyes.

‘She also scolded you for hiding your face.’ This makes the man touch his cheek, contemplating the powder on the pads of his fingers when he pulls his hand away.

‘You know her too well,’ he laughs. A pause. Loki settles on simply water. He was never a fan of liquor and doesn’t have any at the moment, as evident with his empty cupboards. ‘She scolded me, took me in, and then let me go. No longer hers, she told me. Now I am on my own. Ex-communicated, per se.’

Loki takes a long drink before replying. ‘She enjoys distancing herself from what will cause her pain. She loves you, you know. She was going for my head when I told her I was going to kill you.’

Kvasir hums. ‘To imagine that. Her berserkr fits. Glorious.’

Loki only remembers a few of those over his lifetime and they had never been happy events. The thing was Laufey knew how to control herself to an extent when overcome with her anger. She had a cold, rushing violence within her – always threatening to bring upon some sort of death and destruction upon the provoker. Once, Loki remembered how she had, with unerring accuracy, threw the glass in her hand an inch away from the man’s face once he had insulted Jotunheim, and reined in all her knowledge of him to send out scathing remarks upon him and his family.

So brutal and cold and wrecking – like an ice storm, freezing and cracking and breaking people apart with her rages. Laufey the berserkr, Laufey the ice queen of Jotunheim. Oh, how her men and women loved her and Loki admitted him and Kvasir were no different.

‘You were always too forgiving of her actions, Kvasir,’ Loki tells him, putting the glass down on the table and coming to sit across from the man. He props his elbows upon the table, fishing out a blade from his sleeve and placing it loudly on the table. ‘If it were her to cut your throat, then?’

‘I would go gladly,’ admits Kvasir, picking up the blade. ‘Do you remember how to do it?’

‘Of course.’ Loki gestures him to stand. Once upright, he goes behind the old man and grips his hair, tilting Kvasir’s head back to expose his throat. Without hesitation, Loki traces his thumbnail slowly and unwaveringly along some invisible horizontal line upon the neck. Jugular, wind pipe, artery, vein, blood, skin – everything gives way to the blade and everything spills. Death in two minutes.

‘So this is how you will do it,’ mumurs Kvasir, body stock-still.

‘Yes,’ hisses Loki, and he leans his head against the shoulder blade, wondering if the other can feel his shaking. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘I know, I know,’ says Kvasir, and Loki wants to drown.

Thankfully, Kvasir leaves soon after, and there is no evidence that he was ever here. Just a blade on the table and ring from the glass of water.

-

xlv.

Thor does not receive a phone call from Loki until Thursday, close to midnight, when he is in bed, half-asleep, but he jolts awake when his phone rings.

The days that precede Thursday are as routine as they have ever been for Thor. He wakes, goes to work, has minimal contact with Thrym, and goes home. Occasionally, he will call upon Sif or Volstagg on the phone. They are organizing a get together for Fandral when he is dismissed from the hospital Saturday morning. Brunch, at the café where he and Sif went that one time. Break the news to Fandral then – ‘we paid for your hospital stay. You can go back to school and work without a concern.’

Thor rubs his face at these conversations, wondering if he will even be alive to be there, considering Loki’s plans and his deal with the Vanir twins.

Occasionally, he calls Loki but Loki never picks up. His voicemail is becoming familiar to him – each intone of his voice saying his own name. ‘You have reached the voicemail of’ says the woman coolly and then Loki, low and bored, ‘Laufeyson’ and then the long, haunting beep.

‘Lau-fey-son’. Three syllables. Thor tastes them, holds them close to the roof of his mouth so he won’t forget who he is messing with. Cruel, capricious criminal. And each time he gets the man’s voicemail, Thor does not bother leaving a message. Loki’s caller ID will tell him who it was.

Yet, finally, nearing midnight on Thursday, Loki calls.

‘Yeah?’ Thor answers, voice rough with sleep.

‘I’m outside,’ says Loki, quiet.

This makes him pause with surprise. Once his brain catches up, he replies, ‘okay.’

-

xlvi.

Loki walks through his apartment with tension written in the bunched up muscles of his shoulders, the stiff steps he takes forward, the shuttered look on his face. Thor follows behind him as he takes to the couch and sits on the edge of the seat, back ramrod straight, dressed in that leather jacket and those gloves.

Thor stands across from him. ‘Want some coffee or something?’ he offers though it is the middle of the night.

Loki’s poison green eyes flicker upwards, tracing his face with an almost unnerving attentiveness. ‘Sit down.’ He gestures vaguely to the love seat placed perpendicular to the sofa, pressed against the wall, flanking two sides of the coffee table in the middle.

Thor takes a seat and waits. Loki peels off his gloves slowly, dropping them on the table, and, with a sigh, falls backwards against the couch, body suddenly drained of tension. His eyes go half-hooded with fatigue, looking everywhere except at Thor.

‘Do you – ’ he pauses, running a hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you trust me, Thor?’

‘No,’ replies the other, without missing a beat.

There is a pause. Then: muffled laughter. Thor watches Loki stifle the sound by hiding his mouth behind his hand but it’s no use.

‘I should have expected that,’ he says, after he’s regained his composure.

‘Should I trust you?’

He hums, gaze flicking over the coffee table, to the TV, to the photos on the walls, the sparse trinkets, books, movies and CDs on the shelf beside it – everything he has amassed in this small space. ‘You should.’

‘So I’m not going to die tomorrow?’ bites out Thor. Loki’s gaze narrows in irritation, cutting deep into the other with palpable anger.

‘I will be going alone tomorrow.’

Thor starts. ‘No. No. They’ll kill you.’

He waves a hand as if to push Thor’s words aside. ‘I have no need of you tomorrow, Thor. You will not come, and, this way, you will not die.’

‘Loki,’ presses the other, standing up now, ‘what is the deal you made with the twins?’

Loki stands up as well, smoothing his jacket out before replying. ‘Kvasir is going to die tomorrow, but you will not, isn’t that enough?’

‘This isn’t about – ’ Thor breaks off in frustration, trying to find the words. ‘Will you die?’

Shrugging, Loki picks up his gloves and slides them on. ‘It remains a possibility. A necessary risk.’ He turns around then, walking out of the room to the door and Thor hurries to follow. ‘That being said, if I see you tomorrow, I’ll kill you myself. Goodnight, Thor.’

With that, Loki opens the door and quickly steps out, disappearing down the long, dark corridor.

-

xlvii.

Friday morning is an agonizing smear against his eyelids.

He wants nothing more than to dive back into the white coverlet of his bed, to sink into the black of slumber and not face this day. Slowly, it dawns on him that there is warmth beside him. There is someone sitting beside him, bathing in the light that comes through the slats of his window.

Quickly, he shoves a hand under his pillow, holding the handle of the blade tight, before tossing up the coverlet, hand outstretched, and seeing the intruder.

‘You need to get ready,’ says Kvasir quietly, not even looking at him, and Loki puts down the blade with a sigh, his heart beating faster than it has any right to.

‘You saw her again,’ he sighs, dragging himself out of bed. He walks into the adjacent bathroom, running water as he splashes some on his face.

‘I did,’ replies Kvasir, coming to the bathroom door and leaning against it. His hand flicks out a key from his sleeve. ‘Hence, the visit.’

‘For a man who is going to die, you’re awfully calm,’ remarks Loki, moving back out for a robe and fresh towel. He runs the shower as he undresses, unconcerned with his nudity in front of the other. Kvasir lets out a breath, pocketing the key, and traces the long lines of the Loki’s form.

‘Possibly. I might freak out and run at the last moment.’ He pauses. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘I somehow doubt you would,’ replies Loki, pushing the shower curtain aside and testing the water. ‘There’s food in the kitchen while you wait.’

‘I’m not surprised, considering you don’t seem to eat it,’ remarks Kvasir, but he’s already moving away as Loki steps into the shower.

-

xlviii.

There is coffee and toast on the table waiting for him when he comes into the kitchen, dressed in loose pyjama pants and an oversized long sleeved shirt.

‘Thanks,’ says Loki as he takes a seat and eats. The blade is still sitting on his table from the days before. He hasn’t had the heart to move it. Now, however, it seems distant. Killing is such a foreign thought in this kitchen bathed in yellow light, with Kvasir sitting across from him, reading the newspaper, his cheekbones accentuated with his curving tattoos.

He might say he is numb to the idea of killing Kvasir. That it doesn’t matter to him in any way. That it is something that happens – a usual occurrence. The sun sets, the earth turns, family dies.

‘I want your mother to kill me,’ mentions Kvasir casually as he turns the page in his paper.

‘She can’t be a part of this,’ Loki replies.

‘I know. But that is what I want.’

‘You’re being a stubborn old man.’

‘Rather late than never,’ laughs Kvasir, eyes crinkling, and Loki thinks that his numbness is all bullshit. He’s just gotten used to the abstract concept of this man before him no longer existing. To have it happen, to see it go through, and to have that blood on the palm of his hands – unwashable, no matter what. Loki clenches his jaw. He’s going to be sick.

Kvasir sobers up, looking at the other. ‘Why did you tell me that I would have to die? You know you could have simply brought me there today with some pretense or another and then shoot me and it would be done.’

Loki hesitates. ‘You deserved better.’

‘Past tense, good.’

He bristles. ‘I don’t want to do this, Kvasir. But I will.’

‘I know,’ sighs out the other. ‘It’s midday now, you need to dress and prepare. I would like my last rites to be proper.’

-

xlix.

‘Are you ready, sister?’

He is leaning against the side of her vanity mirror, watching her as she sits on the stool and brushes out her hair. She smiles at him, feral and with all her teeth.

‘Why wouldn’t I be, brother?’

Freyr shrugs, dipping his head forward to look at her reflection in the mirror. She’s dressed in a white button up shirt with a navy blazer and trousers, her hair falling over her shoulders in a bright blaze. He is dressed the same. ‘You won’t have any regrets after today? Some wish of, ‘I wish we hadn’t done this deal’?’

She laughs then – loud and sharp, putting down the brush and standing up. Though she remains an inch shorter than her brother, her eyes can bring him down if she so wished. It is a power that Freyr succumbs to surprisingly often. ‘Are you projecting your thoughts on me? Do you regret?’

Freya’s hands fit over his shoulders as she slides her cheek alongside his, mouth bumping against the shell of his ear. ‘Don’t get lipstick on me, sister,’ he says instead of answering, hands sliding down her sides to grip her waist and feeling the holster underneath her arm, pressed along her ribs. It’s empty for the moment.

‘Oh, brother, you do regret,’ she murmurs, and pulls him into an embrace, loose and warm. ‘It is our time now. To do as we wish and to accomplish what we must. To pass on the power even greater than what we have.’

‘You’re awfully poetic tonight,’ he remarks, sliding his arms around her and tucking his face in the crook of her neck. ‘I suppose I have a few regrets. They can be resolved soon enough.’

Freya pulls back enough for her nose to bump along his, like a childish nudge, and smiles at him, her blue eyes bright. ‘Everything will be okay as long as you stay with me.’

‘Of course,’ he replies, and when he kisses her, he can taste the blood and metal and the dark smoke of their sin and it doesn’t bother him – not one bit.

-

l.

Thor is sitting in his truck at eleven thirty, seeing the violet sky slowly dim into black and wondering what the hell he is going to do.

The meeting is taking place at the warehouse at midnight. He wants to be there. Yet… He can’t help but think if Loki would be better off if he wasn’t there. What would happen if he did show up? And Kvasir… Thor lets out his breath in a hiss. He can’t stop Kvasir’s death now. And those other three. The other three sacrifices. Where was Loki going to get those if Thor wasn’t there as he was supposed to?

He gives out a short yell of frustration and, with urgency, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. He won’t know what to do unless he’s there.

-

li.

‘Beautiful,’ says Kvasir.

Loki looks at his reflection in the mirror. Wearing a turtleneck with no sleeves, his long, pale arms are at his side, wrapped with lean muscle and imprinted with long, curving tattoos. They span from the edges of his wrists up his arm and disappear past his bicep to his shoulder blade under the fabric.

‘To spill Jotun blood, I must show I am Jotun as well,’ says Loki, and he turns away, grabbing the trenchcoat on his bed and pulling it on. ‘Come.’

Kvasir laughs, dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, gloves and his tattoos in full view, and follow the other out the apartment. ‘I can’t believe this still fits me after twenty years,’ he comments, gesturing vaguely at his outfit. ‘I killed a lot of people in this.’

‘For Jotunheim,’ reminds Loki.

‘Aye,’ agrees Kvasir. ‘For the Queen.’

-

lii.

The warehouse looms overhead; only three cars are parked alongside it – the twins, the triumvirate and Kvasir’s own. Loki crosses the darkening pavement; back straight and stride imperial as he flicks his blade from his sleeve and slides it back in repeatedly.

The garage door is open only a foot wide, light from the inside spilling forth over the black street. Loki smoothly ducks under it and emerges on the inside, where the triumvirate and the twins stand in the center. A short gaze around shows that they are, indeed, alone. A brief moment later, he hears Kvasir’s steps slide behind him as he enters.

‘You’re missing a few,’ says Njord from the middle, dressed all in pale gray – trousers, suit jacket and tie. He leans on a cane and Loki has no doubt that there is blade inside. Skadi and Nerthus flank him, dressed in black trousers, white button ups and charcoal blazers, also leaning on canes. The twins are standing off to the side – their red hair like fire over their navy blazers. They stand stock still, eyes on the triumvirate, and Loki wonders where their guns are hidden.

‘They will come soon enough,’ Loki replies easily. ‘I bring you the most important one, though.’

‘Kvasir,’ greets Skadi, with a warmth in her tone. Nerthus gives him a nod. Kvasir smiles in return.

‘I did not expect to have it end this way,’ he tells them.

‘Nor us,’ says Nerthus, ‘I would not have let you die at your own family’s hands, but it cannot be helped.’

‘Yes,’ murmurs Kvasir. ‘We all must die at the hands of family.’

Nerthus raises an eyebrow, ‘you are resigned to this.’

He laughs. ‘Perhaps. But I shall have good company on the other side. We had a good run, didn’t we, Nerthus? Skadi?’

‘Yes,’ says Skadi, ‘you shall be missed.’

‘Thank you,’ and Loki can hear the gratefulness leaking through Kvasir’s voice, making his stomach twist.

‘Are we done?’ snaps Njord, gesturing to the twins. ‘We have agreed. Only Freyr and Freya have guns here. And you?’

Loki shrugs off his coat, letting it pool into a mass of black, revealing his arms and tattoos.

‘Oh,’ breathes out Freya, ‘you really are Jotunheim’s.’

‘Was there ever a doubt?’ snaps Loki, but turns to look at Njord. ‘No guns, but a blade.’ He opens a fist where the metal glitters under the lights of the warehouse.

‘I see,’ murmurs Skadi, scanning him intently. ‘I say we proceed.’

Nerthus frowns. ‘Fine.’ It’s two against one and Njord must give in as well. ‘The first one – Kvasir.’

‘I wish,’ interrupts Kvasir, and everyone swings their gaze towards him. ‘I wish to die by Jotun hands. The wish of a dying man. Haven’t we always respected that?’

Loki schools his face into passive acceptance and gestures for the other to stand before him. Just like we practiced in the kitchen, no? says Kvasir’s voice in his head and Loki is most definitely going to throw up after this is over. The triumvirate nod in unison at the request and the twins watch with obvious interest.

‘As long as you do it right,’ says Njord, before going silent.

Loki takes a breath – distantly, he hears the rumble of a car’s engine – and cards his fingers through Kvasir’s dark hair, gripping it tight and tilting the head back. The lights are harsh – it stings his eyes, making them water. He’s not crying. He’s not. He –

‘I love you,’ he murmurs in Kvasir’s ear – voice intentionally husky and higher than normal, a perfect imitation.

At once, Kvasir ‘s body loses any tension and his shoulders slump, head knocking back all the way without any resistance, neck long and white and inviting.

‘Laufey,’ Loki hears him say – with all that softness of a beloved – and he takes the moment to slide his blade without stopping – across the skin, across the tendons, across the nerves, across the decades of family and history and trust –

The blood gushes forth, coating his hand, running down Kvasir’s chest. There isn’t even a gurgle of the man taking a last breath – just silence and wetness. It pours and pours, waves of blood, over the leather jacket, dripping on the floor of the warehouse, splattering a few errant drops on Loki’s turtleneck – but that’s fine. Only a reminder of what he’s done.

Eventually, the life leaves Kvasir and his body slumps, before dropping loudly against the ground, skull cracking against it. Loki is breathing heavily through his nose, trying to keep his gag reflex under control as he sees the pool of blood grow and lengthen –

‘It is done,’ he chokes out, knuckles white around the handle of the blade. ‘Jotun blood has been spilled and three more shall die.’

‘Come, brother, now is the time to take it,’ says Freya, smirking, and she pulls her gun from the holster inside her blazer, cocking it. Freyr follows suite, holding his Glock as if it is foreign. Vaguely, Loki knows exactly how his hand would fit around the handle, the weight of it, Kvasir’s voice: ‘Shoot once, pause, twice – no more. Don’t get messy.’

Oh god, Kvasir’s voice.

Njord looks at Loki, ‘where are the rest?’

Loki takes a shuddering breath. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Wha – ’

‘They’re right here, daddy,’ laughs out Freya, and she shoots Njord square in the head – brain and blood exploding over Skadi and Nerthus.

‘YOU – ’ screeches Skadi, moving towards them, but its too late, Freya aims again and shoots. It hits her throat and she topples backwards, hitting the ground with a sickening crack as her cane tumbles – half-unsheathed.

Nerthus is frozen, eyes wide and jaw clenched tight as she watches the twins. ‘You would do this?’

‘With pleasure,’ drawls Freya. ‘Don’t think that you didn’t realize the four Laufeyson killed were alternate heirs to us. That is why you were so eager to take us back in when they were dead. Didn’t even suspect we turned on you.’

The woman draws herself up – an imposing force of age and pride. ‘Why should we suspect that the heirs of Vanaheim themselves have turned on us, Freya?’

‘Dunno,’ she shrugs. ‘But if I were in charge, I wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to cut a toe off or two just in case. You’re outdated, Nerthus. You rolled over and gave in to Asgard without a protest and still, still, you stand there as if you know better.’ Freya licks her mouth, gun aimed without a tremble in her grip, ‘we are going to take Asgard, and we need you out of it.’

‘Child,’ she snaps. Freya scowls, preparing to shoot, when Freyr places a hand on her arm, forcing it downwards. ‘Not yet, sister. I have one regret that I do not want.’

Freya glances up at him, curious. ‘Do as you wish. Make it quick. I heard a car engine.’ He nods.

‘Nerthus,’ he says, and his voice is gentle and placating, making the woman narrow her eyes in suspicion as she looks to him. ‘Who is our mother?’

She blinks in surprise, mouth parting at the question. ‘Freyr…’

‘Was it Skadi?’ he presses on, ‘or was it his sister. Was it you?’

Nerthus pauses, then, surprisingly, she begins to laugh, quiet. ‘Oh, the only reason you’d ask this is if you’ve succumbed to sin as well.’

‘Fuck your judgements,’ snaps Freya, blue eyes glittering with rage, but Freyr also joins in the laugh.

‘As well, huh?’ He says, softly, as if to himself, then aims his Glock with his unsteady hand and shoots Nerthus in the chest. She crumples, face frozen in a half-smile, and he kisses the barrel of his gun. ‘I’m sorry, mother.’

They both turn to Loki, who watches, frozen with both sickness and shock. ‘it is done, Laufeyson,’ declares Freya. ‘We, of Vanaheim, unite with you, of Jotunheim. I will leave you to clean this up, then, as we agreed.’

‘Yes,’ says Loki faintly. Then he clears his throat and nods. ‘Leave. And gesture for those waiting outside to come in.’

Freyr nods and wraps an arm around his sister, leading them both out of the warehouse. Their steps fade away and new steps arrive. Quickly, he turns and grabs his trenchcoat, sliding it back over his arms. A moment later and he sees the shadow of Jarnsaxa appear at his feet and her shuddering gasp before, ‘where should I put it?’

‘Toss it to the side,’ says Loki, dropping the blade in the pocket. ‘They used a second generation Glock 17, as I told them to.’

‘Perfect,’ replies Jarnsaxa, pulling out a gun from a plastic bag with her gloves and pulling out the chamber. ‘How many bullets?’

‘Three.’ He watches her extract one bullet from the chamber, replace it back into the gun, and toss it away into the corner of the warehouse. ‘The gun shot residue?’

Jarnsaxa laughs. ‘You watch too much TV. It’s fine, I shot it twice about an hour ago. Should still have something left.’

‘And it’s his?’ asks Loki, looking everywhere except the bodies.

‘Yes, the gun belongs to him,’ she tells him, pocketing the plastic bag. ‘Are we going to leave Kvasir here?’

‘I – ’ Loki hesitates, before bringing his gaze down onto the slumped body with its pool of red blood. ‘I’ll call Thrym to carry him out. I’ll make arrangements for a proper funeral.’

‘Thrym’s with me in the car. Thor’s outside too,’ Jarnsaxa says. This makes Loki start in surprise, looking at her with wide eyes.

‘Thor?’

She nods. ‘Yeah, he tried coming in but we talked to him. Told him your plan.’

‘And this stopped him?’ Loki licks the edges of his teeth, feeling the sharp ridges, and takes a breath. ‘I’ll go home with him. Clean Kvasir up, would you?’

‘Of course, Loki,’ she says, and ducks out of the warehouse.

Now that the pretense is gone, he can feel his stomach tighten, the blood on his hand a sticky, dried mess, a painful, bright reminder of what he has done. He gags, smelling the stench of blood, seeing the four dead bodies, the memory of how easily Freya had shot her father and supposed mother.

How easy it had been for them, in the recesses of that basement, to say ‘If you want to ally, you must kill these names, and we’ll consider it.’ And how Kvasir did. How quickly, efficiently, perfectly. And Loki had repaid him with a certain death.

But he couldn’t puke here. He couldn’t leave anything behind. This was a crime scene now. Because you made it so. He shivers, ducking out of the warehouse with its white light, and into the dark street. He takes in the humidity, feels the coat on the bare skin of his arm, the tattoos a burning memento of who he is.

And then he sees Thor ahead of him, leaning against the hood of his red truck, golden hair spilling over his shoulders, mouth turned down in some worried frown, and Loki thinks it would be perfect to drown under him – to forget about everything that happened in the last – what? The last hour or the last year or the last decade?

To drown in Thor.

Loki reaches him and his hands curl in Thor’s collar, pulls him down, leaving bloodied fingerprints on his shirt, and skims his mouth along the line of the man’s jaw before reaching the shell of his ear. ‘Home,’ he says, and he is so grateful to be this close because his voice breaks and –

And Thor says, ‘okay,’ as if it is the only answer in the world.

-

liii.

Thor ushers Loki into his apartment quickly and quietly, guiding him towards the bathroom, where he grabs a new towel and gestures for the other to clean up.

‘I’ll get some clothes,’ he says and Loki is as silent as he was in the truck, his face blank and his eyes half-hooded as if both tired and in pain, but Thor can see the slight tremble in the man’s frame. Eventually, Loki enters the bathroom and Thor shuts the door behind him, waiting in the hall until he hears the rush of water and rustle of clothes.

Later, Thor cracks the door open when he’s found an old t-shirt and pyjama pants and leaves them on the counter beside the sink. He can see the faint silhouette of Loki on the other side of the shower curtain, unmoving, and shuts it again.

As he waits, he makes a sandwich and changes into shorts and a tanktop, ready to sleep after Loki is clean and ready. He sits patiently at the table, thinking on the past hour.

He had driven to the warehouse, parked behind Thrym’s truck, and was close to walking into the building itself, until Jarnsaxa showed herself, gesturing him to be silent and bringing him over to the shadowed part between the truck and warehouse. There had been a gun shot then – and he’d almost lost it, thinking it was Loki who was hurt, who was bleeding, who was going to die, damnit. Then Thrym had appeared from the shadows, placing a hand on Thor’s shoulder and murmuring the plan into his ear: ‘That was the triumvirate dying. Loki made a deal – Kvasir and four others’ deaths in exchange for placing the twins on the throne of Vanaheim and an alliance.’

But, when Loki had walked out, splattered with blood, face with a ghostly pallor and eyes pained, Thor had thought that the plan had failed. It hadn’t, of course. The twins had walked out in each other’s arms, nodding towards Jarnsaxa, as they took to both their own and the triumvirate’s cars.

But Loki’s voice – that crack in it, and the tremble in his body. Thor took him to his apartment without even a second thought if it meant that he would be better – if it meant he could recover to the smooth, cruel criminal that he was. Not this shivering, sickly-looking mess.

Eventually, his thoughts disperse and Thor is left contemplating the wood of his small kitchen table with four chairs. He traces a few scratches in the wood – tiny and pale – and doesn’t notice Loki’s arrival until the other clears his throat.

‘Thor,’ he says, and it makes Thor look up in surprise. The hot water has given colour to his cheeks, a faint pink glow. It’s nice. Better.

‘I made you a sandwich if you’re hungry,’ he offers, gesturing to the plate, and Loki shakes his head, though he does take a seat at the table. He’s wearing a robe overtop the clothes Thor’s given him, probably gotten from the closet, and it is almost comically long the way the sleeves threaten to hide his hands altogether. It was always long on Thor too.

‘I told you I’d kill you myself if you came,’ says Loki finally, his voice rough and quiet.

‘I know,’ Thor replies. ‘Sorry.’

‘You’re not,’ points out Loki.

‘No, I’m not,’ and Thor has the decency to look a tiny bit bashful at this. A moment later, and he sighs, standing up. ‘We need to get rid of those clothes.’

‘Later,’ says the other, and his hand reaches out to grip Thor’s, tangling their fingers together. Thor’s face grows concerned, feeling that tremble again in the hold, and he leans down, over Loki, faces so close that he can see each individual lash. He’s not surprised when Loki’s other hand comes up to card through his hair and pull him the inch closer so he can meld his mouth against the other.

Loki kisses slowly, carefully, this time. It’s new – not frantic anymore. Something easy, something Thor can keep up with. He sucks at Loki’s bottom lip, nibbling, and Loki lets out a sound – faint, before pressing against him. Thor can feel the other’s tongue flick at his lips before he opens up, feeling Loki taste him, as he did before. He takes the opportunity to dive into the other, tracing the sharp ridges of the smaller man’s front teeth and reveling in the taste of coffee and mint and something untraceable, unrecognizable.

Loki’s grip is tighter now, both in his hair and hand, and the tempo increases. He makes a sound in the back of this throat – a pained moan, and pulls off, dragging his teeth down the long line of Thor’s neck with a hiss, tongue laving at the skin where shoulder meets throat.

Thor shudders, hands coming up to grip at Loki’s arms, pulling him up from his seat, and leans against the table, legs spread, so Loki can stand between them. There are fingers dancing at the hem of Thor’s shirt now, nails scraping gently across his skin as they finally get a grip and start to tug upwards. It earns a moan, and Loki bites down on his neck, leaving a mark. Thor keens.

When Loki pulls away, his eyes are blown, the flush on his cheeks even more evident. ‘Thor,’ he says, so quiet and breathy in the humid kitchen air, and Thor nods, because he wants too.

‘Bed down the hall,’ he says, and Loki only nods before dragging the other from the kitchen with the hem of his tank.

-

liv.

Loki knows what he’s doing.

He is perfectly aware of everything right now. The air is heavy, the apartment smells like ozone and he wants to ruin Thor so perfectly and utterly that he doesn’t have to think anymore.

The bedroom is sparse – a large bed, dresser, bedside table, closet and white sheets that haven’t been made. Thor is coming up behind him and Loki pulls on the edge of the tank so that the other is in front of him. None too gently, Loki nudges Thor onto the bed, turning him around so he’s on his back, the gold of his hair spilling over the white so he looks even more glorious.

Loki can’t see the blue of Thor’s eyes anymore – just an all-consuming black, and the man’s shorts are tented as well. Not that Loki should be talking – he is just as hard and wanting.

He straddles Thor, pulling the tank off the other completely and tossing it aside. Then he leans back and looks - Thor is so beautiful it is almost painful. The construction work has him in shape and lean and, coupled with his youth; the sight makes Loki take a breath.

He drags his nails lightly down Thor’s chest, leaving miniscule lines of red on the tanned skin – so, so dark compared to his pallor – and then leans down to kiss it, tongue leaving a trail as he licks his way to one nipple, making Thor hiss and arch, then the other.

He feels Thor canting his hips upwards, the hot press of his cock against Loki’s thigh, and he leans down against it, friction and pressure making the blonde man bare his teeth in want. Beautiful. Loki slides down the man’s legs, his mouth leaving butterfly kisses on his abdomen, before he bites at one hipbone, fingers catching the edge of Thor’s shorts.

‘Gorgeous like this,’ he murmurs against the skin before pulling down the shorts altogether to reveal the curve of Thor’s cock. Immediately, he licks a clean, hot stripe from the base to the tip, making the other groan. ‘Do you want me to suck you?’ Loki asks, because he is cruel and capricious and he wants nothing more than to wreck.

‘Yes, and now,’ pants Thor, because he doesn’t roll over for anyone, and Loki loves the small rebellion before engulfing the prick in his mouth. He sucks, tongue flicking at the glans, feeling the heat and heaviness on his tongue. His hands hold Thor’s hips down as he bobs his head, feeling the tremors under his grip as he works the cock in his mouth with harsh sucks.

A moment later, he slides a hand to cradle the balls, earning a curse, and traces his nail down the perineum and the tracing Thor’s entrance. It makes the blonde man buck, making the head bump against the back of Loki’s throat. Loki pulls off, working his finger inside slowly, carefully.

‘Lube and condom in the table,’ pants Thor, and Loki gets off the bed, opening the drawer of said table to get everything. The clothes he has on are heavy and hot, beginning to stick to him, but he has no intention to taking it all off now. Not until Thor is a writhing, broken mess on the sheets.

He gets back on the bed, spreading Thor’s legs, pliant and willing, to reveal the entrance. He coats his fingers messily in lube before sliding his finger back in, making Thor hiss and tilt his ass up for more. Loki insinuates a second finger, working him loose and open with short, quick thrusts.

Thor’s ass is hot and gripping and Loki finds himself getting impatient to be inside it, to claim Thor as his own, no one else’s. Mine, not Laufey’s, not the twins’, just mine.

Slowly, he adds a third finger, feeling the other grow loose and open just for him. ‘Want you like this, Thor,’ he moans out, and Thor whines in his throat, legs falling apart even further, urging him on.

Eventually, it’s too much. Loki gets off the bed and Thor makes a pained sound, as if Loki means to leave him there, hard and leaking.

‘Need to get out of this,’ he says, and moves to kiss Thor, mouth wet and open. Somehow, his fingers get the robe off, revealing the long expanse of his tattooed arms, but Thor is too occupied with tasting his mouth to see it.

Loki takes the hand not covered in lube and presses it gently against Thor’s eyes, feeling them flutter shut and a questioning sound in Thor’s throat. ‘Don’t look for now,’ he says and the blonde man nods, before Loki pulls his hand away and strips down to nothing.

He crawls back onto the bed, finding the condom and rolling it onto his own cock, before coating it in lube. Thor stays still and quiet, eyes shut, and Loki takes the opportunity to grip the back of Thor’s thighs, pressing his legs forward and apart, the head of his cock bumping against Thor’s hole.

Thor can’t help it – his eyes flutter open, looking utterly ruined as Loki works the head past the initial ring of muscle and then pushing in, bottoming out. Loki is breathing heavily, and he catches the gaze of Thor’s eyes, feels the want and care in them.

‘I’m going to fuck you now,’ Loki tells him as he drinks in the man’s gaze.

Thor swallows. ‘Yes,’ he says, and it’s all the permission Loki needs before he pulls out and shoves back in. It’s just as hot and tight around his cock as it was around his fingers and he has to take a breath before thrusting once more. Thor is gasping, fingers gripping the white sheets, his eyes taking in the long, dark images on Loki’s arms greedily.

Loki’s hips start to find a rhythm and snap against the other, skin making an obscene noise in the room. He sees Thor reach for his own cock, jerking off quickly and roughly, and the sight makes Loki’s mouth go dry – how lovely and wrecked the blonde man was – all because of him.

‘Like that,’ Loki says, voice hoarse with arousal, and Thor hisses, hand moving even more quickly. He twists his hips to get the other’s cock inside him deeper and then bursts into a loud, broken sob as Loki shoves against his prostate.

Loki fucks into him again, aiming for the spot once more and hitting it with unerring accuracy, making Thor writhe, fingers scrabbling over the sheets and his cock. ‘More,’ pants Thor, and Loki obliges, hips upping the tempo as he bends the man’s legs even further, getting more force behind his thrusts.

When Thor comes, Loki is the one who gasps for air – the heat and pressure against him becoming almost unbearable. The sight itself, of Thor’s body snapping back from the tension to a warm pliancy, is too lovely to behold. It crushes against Loki’s chest – making his chest compress and the oxygen leave his lungs – rendering him breathless in a moment.

It only makes that urge – to make Thor – eternally good and beautiful and caring – belong to someone as horrific as Loki, killer of his own family – bloom inside of him. To ruin Thor. To wreck him. To corrupt the golden haired man before him into someone who might be able to – maybe – perhaps – somehow –

Loki shuts his eyes, trying to get rid of the thought and screws desperately into the clenching heat as Thor milks the cock inside of him through his orgasm. It makes Loki’s grip on the man’s thighs tighten until ten fingerprint bruises are left – ten marks of possession – and he bends down, Thor’s relaxed body allowing for flexibility beyond what Loki thought would happen –

He folds Thor in half and Thor’s mouth comes up to meet his, melding into each other in a wet, messy embrace. Loki comes then – cock twitching and spurting out semen as he shudders, says, ‘Thor,’ against the man’s lips and drops his head into the crook of the other’s neck as he stutters out his orgasm.

Eventually, his prick softens and slips out, and Loki falls onto his side, beside Thor, peeling off the condom and tying it up with lethargic fingers.

Thor is watching him, a sated look in his eyes, as a hand comes up to trace one of the long stripes down his bicep. ‘This is…’

Loki looks up at him, ‘my inheritance.’ Then he slips off the bed, balancing precariously on his weakened legs.

His back is facing Thor now and he hears the intake of a breath as Thor takes the sight of his tattooed back – the long swirling curves of a tree and its branches sweeping over his shoulders and down his arms. The tattoo start as a stripe on each of his hips, coming together in an intricate trunk and spreading outwards again, the base of a branch at the very top thinning and disappearing under the hair on his nape.

‘Ymir calls it Yggdrasil,’ says Loki, moving over to the bedside table and to grab a couple of tissues. He hands them over to Thor, who cleans himself up, and takes the stained tissues and condom to the can of trash in the corner of the room.

‘Tree of life?’ asks Thor. Loki slips into bed beside him, bringing the sheets up, a sardonic smile on his lips.

‘Try again,’ he says, turning his back to the other, preparing to sleep.

Thor slides the tips of his fingers down the long stripes, settling his hand on the thin waist, bodily pulling Loki closer to him. He tangles their legs together, resting his chin on the top of Loki’s head, breathing deeply. Loki whines – of course Thor would be into cuddling - but it’s warm against his frame, so Loki doesn’t pull away.

‘Tree of greatness, maybe? Tree of success?’ Thor murmurs. ‘No, probably tree of manip – ‘ His voice cuts off. Loki feels the afterglow leave him – the creeping disgust coming back from the day’s events. ‘Sorry,’ says Thor, lips mouthing against his hair. ‘Tree of great sex, then.’

Loki stifles a chuckle but he remains tense. Thor’s hand on his waist tightens. ‘I got you,’ he says, and Loki grits his teeth, his body curling into itself as the events come pouring through his mind – of Kvasir’s face, his laugh, the softness in his voice, in his eyes.

Kvasir’s words: ‘I know the bigger picture’ and he always did, that’s why he held Loki’s hand through all those years, through all those days – long and endless and coloured bright red.

The skin of his hand is searing again from the slip-slide of blood already washed off but it’s back as it always will be and – Is this worth it?

In the dark of the room, under the sheets, Thor’s body a warm imprint along his back, Loki lets out a broken sound, muffled by his own fingers, and he can feel it – suddenly – the tears streaming down his face – hot and wet and awful.

‘I got you,’ repeats Thor – a litany in the darkness, some blanket of comfort as Loki’s stomach twists and turns and he struggles for some control over - Kvasir’s dead, Loki, and you killed him –

‘Got you, Loki, have you.’

Loki takes a breath – and drowns.

-

Chapter Text

-

lv.

Thor wakes to his phone ringing on the bedside table. The bed is empty and he feels sore but relaxed, seeing the sun sweep over the room, warming him. He answers the call and gets Sif’s voice in return.

‘This is your nine am wake up call, Mr. Odinson,’ she drawls, ‘may I remind you that you have a brunch meet-up to get to so get your ass in gear.’

Thor laughs, ‘alright, alright, thanks, Sif.’ He props himself up on one elbow, looking around. The clothes he gave Loki are still scattered over the bedroom floor and the sheets need to be cleaned from the semen and sweat of last night. Sif pipes out one last threat before hanging up, leaving him with the silence of his apartment.

He finds a shirt and some shorts in his closet and decides on a quick shower before going on a search of where Loki has disappeared off to. If Loki has chosen to stay or leave, it is none of his business. Right now, there is no use pondering it – so he concentrates on cleaning up for the day.

Afterwards, he heads towards the kitchen, smelling coffee and breakfast food. When he finally goes in, he sees Loki, dressed in the tank and shorts of Thor from yesterday night, sitting at his table, toying with his phone and drinking out of a mug.

Loki looks better – his eyes only faintly rimmed in red and something like colour to his face. His hair is tousled and messy and his body is relaxed in the chair, sipping his coffee in silence. When Thor makes a sound, he looks up, face expectant. ‘You sleep like the dead.’

The sight of him – of being here, present, in his home – makes his stomach flip pleasantly. Thor can’t help it: he smiles, ‘yeah, so, you made this all for me?’ He gestures to a plate filled with bacon, toast and eggs.

‘Of course not,’ the other replies as he rolls his eyes before returning to the screen of his phone. Thor swallows it all down eagerly.

‘I’m heading out in about an hour,’ Thor says, pouring coffee for himself afterwards. ‘You can stay here if you like.’

Loki makes a noncommittal hum. Taking that as a ‘yes’, Thor downs his first cup, cleans the dishes, and gets himself a second before seating himself across the other at the table.

‘You’re looking better,’ he remarks. It makes Loki look up, surprise in his eyes. ‘Last night was – ’

‘Over. Last night is over,’ says Loki sharply. ‘It doesn’t make a difference now.’

Thor makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat, ‘so making the deal and all that – it wasn’t important then?’

‘Shut up, Thor.’

‘You can’t deny it, Loki,’ snaps Thor, ‘Kvasir is – ’

‘Shut up,’ and his voice is suddenly loud, a scowl on his face, muscles bunched together as if in restraint. ‘I don’t – I’m not…’ He breaks off, looking away. Thor puts his coffee down and stands up, coming around the table to hunch down beside Loki, catching his gaze and holding it, ‘you have to mourn for him properly one day.’

‘I don’t have time,’ replies Loki, ‘I need to make my move, Thor, and if ignoring it makes it easier to do this, then I will.’

‘That’s fucking stupid and you know it,’ says Thor.

‘What would you have me do then?’ snaps Loki, ‘cry every hour? Put out flowers each night? Pray?’

‘Just talk about it.’

‘Fine.’ Loki straightens, glaring down at Thor, who is still kneeling beside him. ‘Kvasir was family. I loved him. He did all that I asked. And then I killed him.’

‘And now you have a crippling sense of guilt,’ points out Thor.

‘Yes, god,’ says Loki, ‘of course I do.’

‘But you asked him to die, and he did.’

‘Yes,’ and it seems the tension drains out of his body as he slumps against the back of the chair. ‘He did. He shouldn’t have, Thor. He – ’ His voice breaks off. Then: ‘I miss him.’

‘I know,’ breathes out Thor, and his hand comes up to palm Loki’s neck, bringing his face closer to the other’s. Loki meets his mouth without hesitation, opening up and letting Thor languidly lick his way through, tasting the coffee and toast.

The kiss is lazy and slow, as Thor sucks on Loki’s bottom lip, tongue tracing the skin, and then pulling away to slide his mouth over the man’s cheekbones and the tip of his nose. Loki’s eyes flutter shut, letting Thor kiss his lids softly, then his temple, then back down to his mouth. Again, Loki’s mouth opens but Thor doesn’t kiss him – just breathes the air between them.

Finally, after a moment or two, Thor pulls away, leaning his forehead against the other – bright blue eyes watching the green ones.

‘I can’t cry at his funeral,’ murmurs Loki, hands coming up to wrap around Thor’s shoulders.

Thor smiles, ‘then cry now.’

Behold, Loki does.

-

lvi.

Loki is showering when Thor leaves the apartment for the brunch.

He can still feel the warmth of Loki against him, fingers digging in his shoulders as shivers racked down the smaller man’s spine. The smell of Loki – of coffee and smoke (must had one by the open window) – lingers on his skin and he holds it in as long as he can before exhaling.

Thor is going to be a mess when this is over – he knows it. Yet, somehow, he can’t find it in him to regret it.

When the diner comes into view ahead, Thor parks alongside the street, feeling the warm sunlingh wash over him. He goes in, spotting Fandral and Sif laughing beside each other as Volstagg sits across from them in the booth. Thor quickly joins them.

‘Thor,’ greets Fandral, grinning. There are crutches leaning against the side of the seat, but he looks better. His face has colour, his bright eyes glittering, and his face filling out. He stands up, slowly but surely, arms spread to hug the other.

‘Fandral,’ laughs Thor, wrapping his arms around the man. ‘You look good.’

‘Such a relief to get out of there,’ replies Fandral, and they pull away, taking their seats. Sif looks beautiful with her long blonde hair over her shoulders, smiling, expression relieved. Volstagg is also grinning, and Thor feels so very much at home.

‘So, where’s Hogun?’ asks Fandral as they scan the menus. ‘Found a non-crippled friend to hang out with?’

‘I’ll text him,’ says Sif, seeming confused at the absence. ‘Said he’d be here.’

‘Probably work,’ says Volstagg – and then they’re lost in conversation and food.

Thor feels the hour pass by easily with the company he’s with – the words coming easy, recounting stories, catching up on events, listening to the anecdotes of Fandral’s ridiculous behaviour in the hospital – and it’s an easy flow, the ebb and tide of waves and Thor bobs along.

Finally, when the food is done with and paid for, Sif places a hand on Fandral’s shoulder, face sober, and he looks over in curiosity.

‘Fandral, we – ah,’ she hesitates, before going on, ‘Fandral, we just wanted to say that you’re a great friend, one of the best, and we wouldn’t want anyone else. We’re really happy to have you up and laughing again because we love you, you know that right?’

Fandral seems stunned, his eyes wide and a creeping redness in his cheeks. ‘I – yeah, of course, Sif,’ he replies.

‘So,’ and she glances meaningfully at Volstagg. The man takes the cue and clears his throat.

‘We paid for all your hospital bills.’

Fandral’s jaw drops and Thor fills the silence quickly. ‘It was no big deal, Fandral. Don’t worry about it. Don’t even think about it. We’re telling you so you won’t wonder where the bills went.’

The blonde man purses his mouth, face crumpled into distress and confusion. ‘I don’t – guys, why – you didn’t have to. At all. I could have managed. I could have.’

Sif sighs. ‘This isn’t out of pity, you helped us out when we needed it and now we all got together to help you out. So go back to school and pay for those classes you missed, alright?’

There is no immediate response. He’s staring at the table, blinking rapidly, before blurting out, ‘I need to hit the bathroom.’ And, with a surprising amount of deftness, manoeuvres himself onto his crutches and heads away.

‘We made him cry,’ sighs Volstagg. ‘Way to go.’

‘I think they were happy tears,’ mumbles Sif, looking slightly guilty. ‘He’ll understand soon enough, won’t he?’

Thor nods, ‘of course.’

After a few long minutes, Fandral does eventually leave the bathroom and seats himself back into the booth, obviously just having washed his face as his stubbles seems damp, eyes rimmed slightly red. Suddenly, he grins, a stretch of white teeth, ‘I really, honestly, love you all.’

They laugh, relieved, and soon, slowly, they ease back into their conversations. Later, out of the corner of his eye, Thor spots a familiar face enter the restaurant. He raises a hand, waving. ‘Hey, Hogun!’

‘What?’ Fandral swings his head over, ‘About time, Hogun! Work calls, my ass! You have new friends, don’t you?’

Hogun is smiling in return, sliding in beside Thor, eyes bright. His voice is calm and collected, ‘yes, Fandral, and they’re called the Gang Unit.’

‘Holy shi – ’ breathes Fandral, eyes going wide, ‘is that a promotion? Congratulations!’

The rest chime in as well, despite Hogun’s denial of it being a promotion. ‘More like a specialized change. Can’t talk about it though.’

‘Hogun, if you can pay a grand and some for my health, you can divulge a couple of state secrets here and there,’ moans out Fandral, expression pleading.

‘They’re not state secrets,’ scolds Sif, ‘ he’s a goddamn cop, not a bureaucrat.’

‘Hogun knows what I mean!’ Fandral sticks out his tongue. She makes to bite at it and he immediately retreats, to Hogun’s quiet laughter.

‘I just got the background info today. They asked me to read up on a couple more files before the meeting tomorrow.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s interesting. ‘Specially things like territory and tattoos – ’

Fandral rolls his eyes, ‘Hogun, what about what’s happening now?’

Thor sees his friend hesitate to answer, but the mood is warm and the company unparalleled. With all the attention on him, Hogun takes a breath, fingers tapping against the table in nervousness.

‘I just heard – around the unit – about more possible deaths. Gangland war. And maybe even the Aesir beginning to move. Or maybe they already have.’

‘Aesir?’ blurts Thor, to his surprise.

Hogun’s sharp eyes cut into him – brutal and quick. Thor tries not to let anything show – schooling his face to mild bewilderment.

‘Yeah, told you about the three main gangs – Jotunheim, Vanaheim and Asgard, right?’ He flicks his gaze back to the others, to Thor’s relief. ‘This city is ridiculously dangerous – or it will be. Vanaheim was attacked by Jotunheim, and the Aesir are also going to take action – though we don’t know against whom. But – ’

‘But?’ presses Fandral.

Hogun seems confused now. ‘But, I just – our city, our gangs… They’re very professional. It’s unnerving. Yes, we have crime, drug-dealing, soliciting, smuggling, the works. But when people get shot and die – it’s almost never a bystander. Almost never someone like… like you guys.’

‘You feeling sympathy for the bad guys?’ asks Volstagg, curious. Sif is also watching closely, face intent.

‘No, not at all,’ Hogun replies quickly, ‘just because you’re associated with a gang doesn’t mean you deserve to die. Gangs shouldn’t play God that way.’

A silence settles between them – each caught in the stream of their thoughts. Finally, after some stuttering, conversations starts back up again, bypassing the Hogun’s subject for other things – other events and Thor flows into it as he always does.

Finally, when the afternoon comes, Sif goes with Volstagg to catch her shift at work, and Fandral leaves with Hogun to see Fandral’s apartment after such a long time. Thor is left alone as he walks out and across the street to his truck, looking around him – the blue sky shimmering in the distance, the streets busy with pedestrians and traffic, sounds of yelling, talking, laughing, the birds fluttering, the garbage in the gutter, the smoke and steam coming from various neighboring buildings – and feels like he’s going to drown in the life around him.

He likes to think Loki wouldn’t harm these people – he’d keep it professional, keep it within those who know the risk they’re taking when they join. Yet, he has no guarantees but his own misplaced sentiments. He was most definitely in the range of another gang’s gun if they so chose now that he was with Loki – whether for better or worse. His friends, though… They were a wild factor, something he couldn’t predict. Were they associated through Thor?

He sighs, pulling out on the street and heads home, watching the black of the pavement before him, wondering where it would lead.

-

lvii.

He comes home to his kitchen table covered in paper with Loki’s phone on it as Loki himself talks into it, his hand writing down rapidly on a pad of paper.

He’s dressed, again, in Thor’s clothing – jeans and dark t-shirt, and his hair is falling into his eyes – still a mess from the shower. Thor leaves his jacket on the back of a chair as he walks towards the other, a hand sliding over Loki’s shoulder.

Loki leans into the touch but doesn’t stop talking.

‘How are things proceeding then?’

Then, Freya’s voice: ‘as good as it’s going to get.’ She sighs – a rush of static. ‘By tomorrow, the news should be out and they’ll be off our backs. Can’t believe the older ones are doubting our legitimacy, those fucks.’

Thor sees Loki write in sharp, clear letters: Kill those ones too? The bluntness of it sends a chill down the blonde man’s spine but he says nothing, choosing to stand stock-still, eyes scanning the papers over the table.

‘Wait till tomorrow then. You have a solid alibi?’

‘We’re not stupid, you know,’ she snaps back. ‘Ascending the throne is going to be harder than we initially anticipated is all.’

Loki purses his mouth. ‘Let me talk to Freyr.’

‘Sure,’ and there is a muffled noise before Freyr’s voice comes through. ‘Yes?’

‘The bodies should be found by now. The gun too. We don’t know how much time it will take for the press to catch on.’

‘I would give them three days,’ replies Freyr succinctly. ‘Don’t underestimate them.’

‘So you say.’ Loki pauses, before: ‘how long before you ascend?’

‘Give us a week, Laufeyson.’

‘A week, huh? I’ll hold you to that. Once you’ve taken control, further communication will be held with Laufey, understand?’

‘And for now?’

Loki taps his finger against the wood once, twice. ‘For now, it will have to be me.’

‘You take great pains for secrecy, you know,’ says Freyr.

‘I’m sure you’ll figure out why soon enough.’

‘Won’t voice my suspicions here, of course, but we’ll trust you for now.’

‘My thanks,’ he says dryly. ‘I will call you soon enough.’

‘Of course,’ and Freyr hangs up promptly, leaving the kitchen echo with the dial tone. Loki sighs, flicking the phone off. Thor squeezes onto the tense muscle of the man’s shoulder, and Loki lets out a muffled groan before looking up at the blonde man.

‘Have fun, then?’

The inanity of the question surprises Thor. ‘Yeah, I did. You’ve –’ He gestures at the papers on the table, ‘definitely made your home here, huh?’

‘I apologize. I’ll clean it up and leave,’ says Loki, tone brisk, moving to stand, and Thor immediately presses down on his shoulder.

‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ he says and he can feel the man relax under his grip. ‘You can stay if you want. For however long you want to. The clothes, though, we should get rid of.’

Loki reseats himself, a small smile playing on his mouth. ‘Thrym took that away while you were gone. Will you turn on the TV for me? News, please.’

Thor does so and the anchor cycles through the usual spiel – weather, car theft, economic debt, car crashes, murders – but there is no mention of the warehouse or the three dead bodies.

‘No, I wouldn’t think so,’ murmurs Loki, ‘not yet. The cops would still cycle through the evidence before letting the media touch this. Execution tactics have always been gone over twice.’

‘And you would know that how?’

Loki smiles, a glimmer of teeth, dangerous. ‘My mother, Thor. Did you think she just took power of the city by tax fraud?’

‘Might be safer that way,’ Thor retorts.

‘Perhaps.’ Loki moves towards Thor, sleek, comfortable again in his own skin – and it feels like an eternity between now and the last time Thor has seen this part of the other, a sense of relief slipping into his skin. Loki’s fingers trace up Thor’s forearm, his mouth skimming over the man’s chin as he forces Thor to look down and lock eyes with the other. ‘Once more, I ask you to trust me. I won’t hurt you, Thor.’

Thor clenches his jaw in mistrust. ‘And my friends?’

‘And your friends?’ Loki pulls away. ‘You mean Sif. And the bigger one, Volstagg.’

‘And the rest, Loki. And Hogun and Fandral too.’

The names catch Loki’s attention. ‘How many more should I remember?’

‘That’s it.’

‘That’s it, hm?’ Loki dips back inside his thoughts, his face becoming shuttered and pensive. Thor tries to reach out, a hand cradling his neck, but Loki does not respond. Slowly, gradually, he comes back, a twist to his mouth. ‘Come, get ready. We need to make our first moves soon, before he catches on.’

Loki swiftly turns around, going down the hall, and Thor is left alone in surprised silence for a minute or two before Loki is out again – dressed in the leather jacket, jeans and green shirt underneath. He pulls on gloves overtop his spider fingers and runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even further, but Thor can’t help but like it.

‘Loki,’ says Thor, just as they leave the apartment to head outside into the blazing sunlight and Thor’s truck, ‘who is he?’

Loki does not even spare him a backwards glance, but there is some cruel laughter stuck in his throat when he speaks – ‘Why, you know, Thor. Grimnir. Daddy. All-Father.’

-

lviii.

They arrive at a building just off the edge of downtown, tucked underneath the long shadows of the skyscrapers and hotels and apartment buildings. Thor watches the three story square brick structure with wary eyes, but there are a few people that mill around, walking across the street, so it is not a suspicious place to be.

The sun shines low in the sky, coating everything in orange and the sign in the big open window says ‘A.H. Solicitors & Co.’ with the hours written underneath. ‘Established since 1979’. Behind the window, Thor can see an open space with a long strip of a secretary’s desk and chairs placed around the perimeter of the wall. There is a rack of magazines and a fish tank in one corner. A hallway branches off beside the desk to disappear around a corner where, presumably, are the offices. The other corner has an elevator and a fire exit along with stairs.

Loki enters without preamble, and Thor follows, as the smaller man walks up to the secretary. The woman looks fatigued and sullen, her blonde hair pulled tight behind her head in a bun and her grey button up shirt wrinkled at the sleeves.

‘How may I help you?’ She eyes them without enthusiasm as her fingers keep typing on the keyboard.

‘We’re here to see a Ms. Hel,’ drawls Loki.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No,’ and the look she gives them is scalding. Loki smiles, ‘I have a name though.’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’ she snaps.

‘It’s Laufeyson,’ he says and her eyes go wide, fingers immediately stopping all movement as she swallows.

‘I’m sorry. I – uh, she’s – I’ll call her.’

‘Please do,’ and he leans against the wood, peeling off his gloves before he flicks the hair out of his eyes in annoyance. Thor can see the long pale hands, the flash of wrist, and wonders if he imagines the slip of tattoo underneath the sleeve.

Eventually, the secretary stutters out that Hel is on the top floor, her office the second on the right, and Loki thanks her genially before starting across the front room to the stairs. Thor looks at the others around them before he goes up – sees the three people sitting, reading their magazines, all tired looking, all dressed casually. It must be a low-profile solicitor’s office then, he notes.

When they reach the top floor, the office door is open, Thor sees the medium sized desk, two chairs in front, a wheeled chair behind, with a plant in the corner, and a photo framed on the wall of four people – two men and two women.

Behind the desk, in the chair, is who he presumes the woman Hel is. She is not watching them when they walk in, but rather cradling a phone to her ear as she scribbles on a notepad. She has sleek, almond eyes, high cheekbones and dark skin. Her mouth is thin, her teeth a white glimmer underneath, and her hair short – similar to Loki in that it is pushed back and goes around her head, ending in a flare at the nape.

Her voice is low and deep, her frame sturdier than Loki, with wide shoulders and a square torso, though her femininity is unmistakable. She soon murmurs a goodbye on the phone and hangs up, propping her chin on her hand as Loki takes a seat before her desk with ease. Thor hovers at the door, cautious, before being beckoned to sit down beside the smaller man.

‘Hello, Laufeyson,’ she says, and smiles a bit coldly.

‘Hel,’ greets Loki in turn.

‘Why are you here? I did my job well last month, if I recall.’

‘Oh, I’m not here because of him,’ reassures Loki with a smirk. ‘I’m here because of a little something that you’ll know about in a day or two.’

‘Did you finally double-cross, then?’ Hel seems unimpressed with the other, though the secretary had become a stuttering mess. Thor gets the impression she is on equal terms with Loki – whether legal or not was a different matter.

‘Have you always harboured such awful sentiments about my character?’ Loki says with a sigh. ‘No, I come because my mother sent me.’

‘You serve two masters?’

‘Only one and you’d be surprised to know which,’ he bites back.

This earns a laugh from Hel, who traces a finger over her notepad before picking up a pen. ‘Talk then.’

‘I’m here to offer you a way to benefit from the…’ Loki licks his mouth deliberately, eyes hooded in thought. ‘For lack of better term, the shitstorm that will be arriving your way this week.’

‘And the only way you could know this is by causing it, isn’t that right?’ Hel smile is a sharp gleam.

‘Correct. Would you like to take the offer?’

‘You never elaborated. What does it entail?’

‘A bit of treachery, here and there. Nothing you’d be opposed to, considering your sire.’

Hel flicks her eyes to the photo on the wall – with the two men and two women. Thor follows her gaze, noting the sharp cheekbones on each face, the almond shaped eyes. There is an older woman, evidently the mother, of a similar sturdy build like Hel. Her hair falls over her shoulders in curls, and she stands beside a slightly younger version of Hel. Beside Hel is another man, his frame slight like Loki’s, lean and long, his head shaved and a hand slung over Hel’s shoulder. On the other side of the mother is a hulking man, very built and big, his frame like Thor’s, and his hair is cropped short, with a wide, white smile.

The family stands before the open window of the brick building they’re in and between them, they’re holding the sign, ‘A.H. Solicitors & Co.’, clutched gingerly between the hands as if newly-painted. It seems like a recent photo, only half a decade old, and the Established part is already hanging behind them.

Human, thinks Thor. Just like Loki, just like the twins. Human. There is an evident air of contentment and happiness in the picture. They’re all smiling.

‘My mother was not treacherous,’ says Hel, and Thor sees the older lady with her long curls and bright grin. One of her arms reaching up and around the man’s shoulders and it is corded with muscle. ‘Merely resourceful.’

‘I won’t hold it against you,’ says Loki. ‘The thing is Jotunheim wishes to claim your allegiance. Like old time’s sake.’

‘Just because my family traces back to yours doesn’t mean we will be loyal to you, Laufeyson,’ sighs Hel, as if this is an old point she has been over again and again.

‘Hel,’ says Loki, ‘I assure you this is a mess that you would be, ah, prudent to avoid.’ He pauses, looking lost just for a moment, almost incertain. ‘Take the winning side. Think of it as advice, say, from me not as Laufeyson but Farbautison.’

Hel snorts in derision. ‘Don’t play that card with me. We, of Niflheim, are loyal to Asgard and to the All-Father. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise as of late.’

Loki licks his lips. ‘Fall, then, sister and queen of Niflheim. What has he given you that I wouldn’t?’

‘Given, brother?’ she says, eyes intent on him. ‘The All-Father gives nothing, but he allows for stability, and takes his loyalty.’

Again, the pensive look comes over him. ‘Take the risk of disloyalty now, then. In a week, I’m sure you’ll do it of your own accord and call Laufey.’

‘And if I do? Will the offer be sweeter then?’ Her gaze is shrewd, calculating.

‘Doubtful. Perhaps it is best if I take my offer elsewhere.’

‘Elsewhere? That being? To Svartalfheim? Alfheim?’

‘I think not,’ and his smile is sickly sweet. ‘I heard Nidavellier is a good place, though their captain hasn’t been around lately. They’re getting restless.’

The room plunges a degree as Thor sees Hel’s temper spike suddenly at the mention. ‘You will leave Nidavellier out of this,’ she growls. ‘They are part of Niflheim no matter what you’ve heard.’

‘Then take the risk and come with me,’ says Loki simply. ‘Or has your loyalty been bought at too high a price for me to haggle back?’

‘I said leave,’ she snaps, her eyes furious.

‘Ah,’ breathes Loki in some small realization. ‘I see. It is too high. The All-Father has him as a hostage.’

‘I should just tell him what went on here, now,’ says Hel, voice acidic, ‘trade Farbautison for Farbautison.’

‘But I’ve said nothing, Hel,’ replies Loki mildly. ‘No matter how much suspicion you cast on me, there will be equal amounts on you. Especially with your brother in the mess.’

‘My brother and what the All-Father does with my brother to keep me in line is absolutely none of your business, Loki,’ she says, slow and careful.

‘You’re right,’ concedes the man. The conversation falls into tense silence. Hel’s jaw is a tight line and her eyes blazing with rage. Thor sees Loki stand up then, and slide the sleeve of his jacket up his arm to reveal the long lines of his tattoo. Hel slides her eyes over the long lines, recognition sparking in her face as her mouth parts with a small breath.

‘Put that away,’ she says softly.

‘Trust me, Hel,’ he replies, equally quiet.

‘A week, Laufeyson. I would have a week for my decision,’ she says with an air of finality.

With a flourish, Loki nods and turns away, beckoning for Thor to start down the hallway. He pauses in the doorway, giving a glance back. Hel meets him head on.

‘A week and a day, for you, dear sister. Be prepared in three.’

And they leave before Hel can muster up a reply, but Thor can see Loki expression – and it is one of victory.

-

lix.

Thor drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they drive down the streets of downtown during afternoon weekend traffic, before cutting the silence with, ‘so, she’s your sister, huh?’

Loki hums, typing on his phone, before glancing over. ‘Is that a problem?’ There is incredulous laughter in his voice.

Thor shakes his head. ‘No, just that… If your father was black, how did you come out only a shade darker than, well, ghost?’

‘Ah, yes, that,’ Loki pockets his phone, ‘Farbauti was my step-father for a time after he divorced Hel’s mother. She is my adopted half-sister. Or I hers. The point is we both carry Farbautison in our name, though she has his blood.’

‘Step-father, hm,’ murmurs Thor to himself. Loki says nothing more and the ride goes on in silence – coated in the sunlight and the gentle hum of the engine.

-

lx.

‘You know what they’re going to ask of us.’

‘I do, brother,’ sighs Freya as she rummages through the glove box of the car. Freyr is looking out the window at the long stretch of the underground parking lot. The people pass hurriedly from their car to the entrance of the office building even on a Saturday afternoon.

‘Found anything yet?’ He taps his gloved fingers against the window pane. Freya growls in frustration.

‘Empty. Nothing. Not a fucking scrap with a stray number or anything. He’s vanished.’

The slam of a car door is heard in the distance. A group of teenagers dressed in jeans and bright t-shirts laugh and jostle each other as they get to the entrance. One of them glance over and catch Freyr’s gaze before quickly sliding away. It makes his skin crawl with paranoia.

‘We’ve been here for too long. If there’s nothing in the glove box or the trunk, then we’re getting rid of this car,’ he says, turning on the engine. The car comes to life, and Freya slumps against the passenger seat, looking at her gloved hands with disgusted look.

‘We’re going to have to dump it to the North of the city, then,’ she sighs. ‘Can’t believe this. We’re going to have to find him ourselves.’

‘If we can, our triumvirate will be complete.’

‘Fucking triumvirate,’ snaps Freya. ‘We could rule ourselves – the two of us. I can fight, you can think. We’re perfectly balanced.’

Freyr hums, pulling out of the shadowed parking lot and into the street. Downtown traffic lurches and shifts, but he merges into it seamlessly, working the clutch of the car as it was his own. There are traces of them in the car still – the scent of varnish, of gun smoke, of smudges on the back windows from when Nerthus pushed the door open, the skewed floor mat from when Skadi sidled out from the middle.

Freyr tells himself he doesn’t regret but the weight of the gun in his holster is a reminder of the new spilled blood on his hands. Instead, he concentrates on the grooves of the steering wheel under his hands and remembers how Nerthus had sat beside him when he was thirteen and told him how to place his foot on the clutch as he drove.

‘Brother,’ says Freya softly, ‘I haven’t seen him for years. How will I know he’s the one? What if I’ve passed him on the street before, saw blonde hair, and then dismissed him entirely?’

‘He has a tattoo, sister, just like us,’ he says, ‘the third heir. Take the next blonde to bed, strip him, see him and if he’s not the one – kick him out. I’ll do the same.’

Freya laughs. Then: ‘Do you think it’s Odinson? Laufeyson’s toy? Very blonde, very powerful and a berserkr to boot.’

‘It hasn’t been that long for him to have forgotten Vanaheim already. I’m sure he would recognize us.’

‘Yes, unless he doesn’t. God damn it.’ Freya bares her teeth as she growls, shoulders tense in anxiety. Freyr reaches out, wrapping his hand around her forearm and she shifts in her seat, looking at him balefully. ‘The triumvirate – composed of two Vanir and one outsider. Us two and - fuck’s sake, Njord took this outsider thing too seriously. Should have raised him alongside us. Instead, he’s fucking fostered like some orphan outside of the clan.’

‘Skadi was the same, you know that.’

‘I know, but – ’ Freya scowls. ‘We belong with him, and he belongs with us. Not out there – in that world of rules and fucking citizenship and…’ She trails off as they drive along. ‘It’s been seven years, brother, since we last saw him. I wonder if he’s gotten big.’

‘We should search Skadi’s place next, after this.’

‘Okay.’

‘Sister.’ Freyr frowns as he glances over her blank face. ‘No use sulking over it. Four people died – that’s two pairs of Vanir, two pairs for heirs that were eliminated. That means there are three outsiders – perhaps we can use one of them instead if we find them.’

‘I want him.’

‘So do I, but can we agree to compromise?’

‘We cannot,’ says Freya, ‘and you know exactly why. The captains are going to gut us for bringing in the wrong third to the triumvirate. Breaking the rules in the will and all that.’

The man’s face crumples in confusion. ‘You read Njord’s will?’

Freya rolls her eyes. ‘No, brother, I just knew who to name off when Laufeyson asked who to kill from my dreams.’

‘Troublesome old man,’ spits out Freyr in annoyance. ‘Fine. We’ll find our young, blonde saviour.’

‘Still,’ and here she leers at her brother, ‘this would be a great reason to strip down that Odinson, don’t you think?’

He stifles his laughter. ‘If he found out, Laufeyson wouldn’t hesitate to kill us in return. The man is possessive to a fault.’

She hums in agreement. ‘Endearing, isn’t it?’

‘More like familiar,’ replies Freyr, and his grip on her arm is just tight enough for Freya smile back.

-

lxi.

At eight, they eat spaghetti at his kitchen table with all its nicks and scratches and drink a beer or two before Loki splays himself over the couch. Thor sits at the end of the couch, the other’s legs tangled in his lap, as he idly watches a sitcom with a volume too low to be discernible.

He presses his thumb against Loki’s ankle, circling his fingers easily around it and wonders, time and time again, how someone so lean can be so dangerous. Loki has a wifebeater and sweatpants on, his arms behind his head as his eyes trail over the length of Thor’s body.

Thor matches the gaze evenly, sliding his fingers under the sweatpants and over the calf. ‘Anything catch your interest?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, coming upwards to lean his elbows against his crooked knees. One hand reaches out to slide over Thor’s neck, playing with the hair. ‘Your hair’s gotten long.’

Thor leans into the touch, feeling him being pulled forward. Loki doesn’t kiss him – just slips his nose beside the other’s, breathing quietly. His green eyes have gone half-hooded and Thor’s pulse jumps over the sight.

‘I like it, looks good,’ he murmurs. ‘Tie it back.’

Thor laughs breathily at the man’s fascination. ‘Look in the mirror. It was short when we met and, fuck, look at it now.’

‘Well, it has been a month,’ replies Loki quickly, a touch defensive.

‘You’re so vain,’ says Thor easily, ducking up and kissing him. Loki presses back, opening up and letting Thor’s tongue sweep over the roof of his mouth, tasting the sauce from dinner. In turn, Loki scrapes his teeth over the man’s bottom lip, tugging and sucking. Thor’s hair feels soft and endless as his fingers card through them, and there’s a wide, strong hand at his waist tugging him forward.

A few manoeuvres later and Loki straddles Thor’s lap, sucking his tongue and pressing his half-hard cock against the man’s hard abdomen. Thor lets out a gasp, his hand on Loki’s waist sliding up under the wifebeater to flick one of Loki’s nipples. The other hand is cradling Loki’s neck, fingers rubbing at the first knob of his spine.

Loki arches, pulling off with a gasp as he brings his hips down to rub his cock against the man’s lap. ‘Want you again,’ he says, voice wrecked. Thor pulls off his own shirt and grabs the hem of Loki’s wifebeater, sliding it off of him as well. He surges up then – mouth sinking over a spot under Loki’s jaw and he receives a full body shiver in return.

‘Thor, god, fuck,’ stutters out Loki, hips rolling as he feels the hard press of Thor’s cock against his thigh and a hot tongue laving its way down the tower of his neck. ‘Let me ride you.’

Thor groans at the words, hands cupping Loki’s ass before standing up. Automatically, Loki wraps his legs around Thor’s waist and his fingers clutch at the man’s wide shoulders as he is carried off to the bedroom.

Thor shoulders the door aside and seats himself at the edge of the bed, a hand reaching out and groping for the drawer of the bedside table. Somehow, he gets it open and pulls out the condom and lube. Loki busies himself with rutting steadily – his cock and against the other’s.

‘Loki, bed,’ says Thor, voice hoarse, and Loki extracts all his tangled limbs to slip out of his sweatpants and underwear, lying on his stomach and knees, legs spread. ‘Oh fuck,’ blurts Thor, dropping the lube on the bed to strip down.

Loki turns his head to look behind him as he feels a blunt finger slide itself inside of him. His hips begin to shift in small motions, rolling to the slow, careful fingerfucking. ‘Going to be open and wet for you,’ he says, quietly, just to see the reaction, and Thor’s grip on his hip tightens as he begins working in a another finger.

Eventually, Loki is moving along with the fingers, moans becoming whines as he tries for more and Thor somehow understands because he moves up the bed and gets on his back, a hand on Loki’s arm as he pulls him up to kiss him.

Loki kisses desperate and quick, hands framing Thor’s head as he props himself up to slide into Thor’s lap and feel the man’s cock a hot brand on his thigh. He grabs the condom, opening it and sliding it down Thor himself as he tilts the man's cock towards his entrance.

Slowly, inch by inch, he is filled up by Thor’s prick, sending sparks of pleasure up his spine. Loki swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, as he lifts his hips up and slides back down, gaining momentum as he relaxes and loosens.

The grip on the top of his thighs borders on painful, but he ignores it in exchange for seeing the blown pupils of Thor – so dark and wide that there is no more hint of blue. His hair is all around him, like some halo, like some dangerously beautiful creature.

‘Thor,’ he says, reverently, in a breath, and clenches tight, trying to keep Thor inside him for just a little longer, feel the pressure that threatens to suffocate Loki. The blonde man keens, hips unconsciously bucking upwards, and Loki meets him halfway, twisting down.

They fuck – fast and deep, Thor’s cock ruining him from the inside out and Loki impaling himself even more quickly than before. He can feel the heat running up his thighs, up the nerves of his spine, clenching his throat, and Thor’s hands on his legs are a searing brand.

Thor doesn’t stop either – he shoves upwards, his thrusts at counterpoint, and do not waver, seamless and smooth, no matter how haphazard their rhythm gets. Loki can hear the slap of skin on skin – the loud sound it makes, almost obscene, and the noises they make – ‘hah, fuck, god, yes, yesyesyes’ –

‘Loki,’ says Thor, desperate, and Loki bends over, almost drapes himself over, his own hand finding his cock and tugging at it for some relief as Thor cranes his neck upwards and kisses him – meets his mouth wet and open.

Loki comes first – despite Thor’s vocalization – and it might be because Thor’s hand surrounds his own over Loki’s cock, a callused thumb finding the head and spreading the leaking precum over it, flicking his nail over the slit, one stroke, another, and then Loki’s shivering, his bones melting together as he leaves streaks of warm come over Thor’s stomach.

Instinctively, his ass clenches, and Thor’s breath comes out in gasp, as if he’s been winded, until the muscles clench in his legs and he fucks into Loki like no tomorrow – merciless and hard, hips moving at a frantic pace as Loki loses any sense of control over his body.

He tries, weakly, to match Thor’s pace, but it is no use and he feels like he’s being rocked in a storm – with thunder being the rush of blood in his ears and the lightning the points of pleasure everytime Thor’s cock fills him and rubs against him just right.

Thor comes with a muffled shout, hands at Loki’s waist as buries balls-deep into the smaller man, the aftershocks rippling through his muscles in trembling, minute thrusts until he’s completely spent. Half a minute later and Loki feels Thor’s cock go soft, sliding out, and Loki falls onto his side next to the blonde man.

Silently, Thor takes the tissues from the bedside table and wipes them down, then removes the condom, tying it up, and, with a well-aimed toss, reaches the trash can in the corner of the room.

‘Seriously?’ snorts Loki, already pulling the sheets around them.

‘Practice,’ smiles Thor, sliding in close against the other warm body. Loki offers no resistance as his legs end up tangled with Thor’s and an arm slung over his waist.

‘Feeling better?’ he murmurs, and Loki does not tense this time, just feels the guilt at the back of his throat.

‘No,’ he replies, quiet. His fingertips slide down the tanned torse of Thor, feeling the heartbeat underneath and the warmth.

He waits for the reply – the sympathy, probably, or perhaps some rhetorical question. Some philosophical quote, though he doubts Thor has memorized many of those. Perhaps an anecdote in the afterglow – something to cheer him up. Instead, it ends up with Thor pressing his mouth against Loki’s temple in the briefest kiss and saying, ‘okay,’ in a breath, letting the silence take over.

-

lxii.

In the morning light, there are voices.

One voice: ‘Three bodies have been found shot in either the head or chest today. Located this morning in a warehouse, the police have been at the scene for hours and have refused to comment on anything at this time. There has been speculation that these are related to the other four deaths regarding the Vanaheim gang war – everyone is advised to stay safe in busy, familiar places, during daylight hours.’

Another: ‘The last gang war of the city was over twenty years ago and resulted in over two dozen deaths and it is still yet to be decided which murders were independent and which were related to said conflict. Whether this one is a repeat of ‘84 is yet to be decided. Already, there has been seven deaths in total, and police will be obligated to make a quick decision and take the appropriate action.’

Finally, Loki’s laughter – cruel and sharp in the languid summer air.

-

Chapter Text

-

lxii.

‘You look tired,’ she says, bringing out two mugs of coffee to the balcony. She leaves one on the railing for him to take and sips at her own, the sunlight sliding down her blonde hair, tied up in a messy bun. Even at sixty-some years of age, she looks regal in a way – a long, Roman nose, thin lips, bright blue eyes and laugh lines around her mouth. Turning to glance his way, she smiles at him. ‘It’s a Sunday, relax.’

‘I’m trying,’ he sighs, feeling the warmth of the mug underneath his fingertips. Looking out at the wide backyard of their home, with its green grass, a small garden in the corner and trees but a decade old, he tries to untie his muscles, yet it’s no use. ‘The recent news, it’s… disconcerting.’

‘The murders, you mean,’ she says, with a tone that brooks no euphemism and no argument. ‘It has nothing to do with you, you know that.’

‘Still,’ he says. ‘I worry. For the future, for us, for our children.’

‘Odin,’ she says, with laughter in her voice, eyes warm, and lays a hand on his arm. ‘You have brought us this far, haven’t you? You have an empire of a business, we live in this lovely house and we’re all well-provided for.’

‘Frigga, I’m eighty six,’ he says, quiet. Her expression softens in turn. ‘Baldr is young still. We had him at a late time of our lives. In fact, I was rather surprised we had him at all, and Hod as well.’

‘What can I say? I come from a fertile family,’ she replies easily, ‘do not worry for them. They’re here now, and they’re more than ready and capable to follow you into the business. There’s so many other people to help them, isn’t there? Like Tyr.’

Odin drinks his coffee in silence, feeling the warmth of Frigga’s touch.

After finishing his drink, he turns to her, laying a hand on her neck and bringing her close. She lets him hug her loosely like that, his mouth brushing her temple, and he murmurs into her skin, ‘things are a bit more complicated then that.’

Frigga looks up to his face, her own expression open and questioning. ‘What was that?’

Odin smiles down at her, reassuring. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

-

lxiii.

After Loki showers, dresses and has a smoke by the open kitchen window, he slips back into the bedroom and slides a hand through Thor’s hair as the blonde man lies asleep, sheets pulled up over his bare form.

Thor awakens in dazed blinks, a hand coming out from under the sheets to slide up Loki’s arm and hold him there. ‘G’mornin’,’ he slurs, tongue heavy with sleep. Loki can’t help but smile.

‘I’m going out in a few minutes,’ he tells the other, ‘try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.’

‘I’ve survived up till now, haven’t I?’ growls Thor, grip moving to Loki’s waist and bringing him forward so Thor can nuzzle at Loki’s thigh. The grip in Thor’s hair tightens involuntarily as Loki feels his pulse spike.

‘I need to go, Thor.’

‘In a few minutes,’ retorts Thor easily, propping himself up on an elbow as his hand moves from waist to the button of the man’s pants. He unfastens it and slides the zipper down, a hand palming the rapidly rising cock underneath. Loki hisses, bucking into the grip involuntarily.

‘Thor,’ he warns, wanting for the other to either back away or finish him off quickly. Thor smiles up at him before sliding the shorts out of the way and baring the other’s prick in the humid air.

With a shiver, Loki feels himself be engulfed in a hot, wet mouth, sucking him down as a tongue traces patterns on the underside of his cock.

Thor takes him easily, bobbing his head and sucking gently, a hand working the base of the shaft and occasionally dipping down to tease Loki’s perineum with the tip of his nail. He rubs the pad of his finger around the skin of Loki’s entrance, feeling it twitch and tighten, still sore and slightly loose from the night before, and hears the smaller man moan raggedly.

‘In me,’ growls Loki, hips rolling into Thor’s mouth, and Thor complies, sliding his finger into the other, feeling the hole flutter and clench around him. It rips a whine out of Loki’s throat as he tightens his grip in Thor’s hair, fingernails threatening to dig painfully into the blonde man’s skull.

Thor sucks hard then – increasing the pace – moving up and down, slick noises filling the air, and Loki feels gloriously overheated, letting himself be lazily finger-fucked in counterpoint with the friction on his cock. He stutters out, ‘f-fuck - Thor,’ and Thor hums in acquiesce, moving to the tip and suckling it, his tongue playing with the hard ridge of the cockhead.

The stimulation tips Loki into white oblivion, as he involuntarily shoves Thor upon his cock, feeling the man’s throat spasm in surprise, as he comes hard. The aftershocks run up his legs for a minute, and he feels Thor relax, pulling back from Loki’s grip, and slowly swallow everything down.

Dragging his finger out and letting the softening cock slip out of his mouth, Thor grins, leaning against the headboard lazily. ‘Good morning.’

Loki roughly pulls up his shorts and pants, buttoning and zipping it back up. ‘I refuse to say ‘thank you’.’

Thor shrugs, a hand moving under the sheets as he gets himself off. ‘Too bad. Might not happen often then.’

There is a beat of silence before Loki starts to leave. He gets to the door, Thor’s gasps as he fucks his fist following him right to the threshold, before he gives in. ‘Thank you.’

And the last thing he hears before leaving is Thor’s voice – ‘No – hah – p-problem.’

-

lxiv.

Thor spends his Sunday doing laundry, opening the week’s mail, lazing on the couch watching reruns while eating sandwiches, and drinking beer to cool down in the summer heat. It’s routine in a way – the whole week he is either doing manual labor or hanging with friends or chasing after Loki in some contrived plot against people he would rather have lived not knowing, but on Sundays, he lounges and does nothing, embracing the lifestyle of the lazy.

By the evening, Loki has not returned, and Thor flips channels in boredom, wondering, in some part of his mind, what Loki is doing, where he has gone and how far they will take this – this thing of heat and sex and touch.

And the death and destruction, too.

Quickly, he pushes that train of thought away, concentrating on what is happening on the screen of the television. The news channels flash by, in quick succession, and he catches snippets of words – ‘rumours’, ‘confirmed,’, ‘leak,’ –

Thor pauses in sheer curiosity.

‘ – from the police says that a suspect may already be on way to the station to be interviewed and added on file. The suspect is of high-profile, it is being said, and,’ the reporter pauses, her mouth twisting upwards in confusion, ‘and it was his weapon found at the scene today at the warehouse.’ Her eyes flick up to the camera in some eager fascination, itching for more details. ‘The investigations continue in the city and information will be provided as it is revealed. Reporting live – ’

He cuts the power and tries to think. He recalls Jarnsaxa, with a gun, entering the warehouse and leaving without it, and Thrym’s reassurance that nothing will implicate Loki in this.

‘Oh,’ Thor breathes in quiet realization.

-

lxv.

‘You want me to lie.’

‘It’s not lying if it’s the truth,’ Loki sighs, tapping the yellow plastic table with his fingers. His empty coffee cup is next to hers, and she’s glaring at him balefully, ready to leave the diner with a flushed face and her dignity.

‘Darcy,’ he says, ‘you’re a reporter. Report things.’

‘Yeah, report not-fake things, dumbass,’ she retorts, chewing on the tip of her pen while her hand clutches a notebook. ‘You can’t just expect me to walk up to my editor and tell him, ‘oh, hey there, some guy from university is telling me that goddamn Grimnir, one of the lead businesses in the city, state and probably country, is the leader of a notorious gang that puts drugs on our streets and the source of our crime rate.’ Yeah, that’s going to go over great.’

‘I never said he was the leader of the Aesir,’ replies Loki easily, ‘just that you might want to look at his financial history and all that. There are a few… discrepancies.’

‘That’s not my business, Loki,’ she warns. ‘And how do you know all this?’

‘Never ask a man to reveal his sources, Darcy, that’s bad journalism,’ scolds Loki with a smile. ‘We compromise on this then. You go to your editor and tell him that the spotlight is going to fall on the CEO of Grimnir very, very soon.’

This catches her interest. Darcy leans forward, pen ready, her brown hair pushed out of her face to reveal the intent expression. ‘And why is that?’

‘Easy. The police are going to bring in his son for questioning.’

Darcy licks her lips, pen moving slowly across her notebook. ‘Alright. I’ll bite. How come?’

‘Because he is implicated in murders and is under suspicion. Really, Darcy, is there no other reason why wealthy people come to a police station?’

‘Shut up, I’m writing.’ She flips the page and continues scribbling. ‘Let’s say your prediction is right. That you, who somehow knows the inner workings of this huge business, can say, with absolute positivity, that the sons of Grimnir – one of them, anyway – killed three people in a warehouse on the outskirts of town. Then, obviously, this is your sole lead back to the Aesir?.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And how do I know you’re right?’ Darcy looks at him hard, with narrowed eyes and her pen tapping insistently against the page of her notebook.

‘Trust me,’ smiles Loki. She rolls her eyes.

‘Okay, a few more things.’ Darcy flips the page and licks the tip of her pen with a flick of her tongue.

Loki makes a face. ‘You still have that disgusting habit.’

‘Hey,’ she starts, affronted, ‘better than your disgusting habit.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Darcy’s face twists up in mild disgust. ‘The tip of my pen is more hygienic than the tip of a dude’s dick.’

‘And you’re still reluctant on oral sex,’ he sighs, feeling nostalgia creep up his spine. University conversations at three in the morning would never leave him, would they?

‘I am of the school of thought that I do not have to put my mouth near anyone’s genital area to get them off,’ replies Darcy primly. ‘Now, back to the relevant topic. Can you tell me which son will be the one shuffled into the cage of bluebloods and torn to pieces?’

‘The younger one. Blind in one eye. Name of Hod.’

‘So many details, Loki, slow down,’ she teases. ‘Where is the link?’

‘Gun at the scene.’

‘And who are the victims?’

‘Skadi, Nerthus, Njord. Three CEOs of various enterprises. One specializes in… athletic wear? And another in a hunting business. Can’t recall the third.’

‘They’re Vanir.’ She stares at him, processing it all.

‘Yes,’ says Loki with a quirk of his mouth. ‘They’re Vanir.’

‘You – ’ She cuts off on her own, mouth stilling, but her eyes slide down his face and fill with a wary curiosity. Loki knows she won’t ask for his motivations nor his sources, provided there were any sources, and that if she didn’t bite him, he’d be back to give her more. Intuition, journalist’s instincts or just plain Darcy intellect – sometimes it was hard to tell.

‘You know what you’ve handed me, right?’ Her voice is low and grave.

‘I do. A promotion.’

‘Not quite,’ she says, expression dissolving to excitement. ‘But close enough. I need to run this with my editor first.’

‘Not all of it, though,’ says Loki gently. ‘A few details. Let it be leaked. There is a suspect. His gun was found at the scene. He is of… wealthy status. Or however you say it. There should be rumours. There should be prelude to the storm.’

‘The storm being my exclusive little tidbit of what is happening,’ says Darcy, with comprehension written over her face. ‘You better be right. I’m trusting you.’

‘Rookie mistake,’ he teases.

‘I can’t believe you’d call me after, basically, a year of no communication just to tell me all of this. Awful, you’re just awful.’ She tucks the notebook in her bag and sticks the pen behind her ear, holding her brown hair back from her face. ‘Seriously, we’re better friends than that. Let’s go out for a beer or something. Catch up. I have to run now for work and… this. Damn it, Loki.’

‘If it helps, I’ll come to you when I have more and we can have a drink then,’ he replies, voice soft. She glares at him, huffily standing up. In a swift motion, she kicks his leg hard.

‘I missed you, shitface.’

Loki laughs. ‘The feeling is mutual. Later, then.’

‘Later,’ she repeats solemnly, before kicking him again and walking out of the diner.

-

lxvi.

Thor orders Chinese food fifteen minutes before Loki walks through the door of his apartment with a backpack and a key in his hands.

‘I didn’t give you that,’ remarks Thor, sifting through the cupboards of the kitchen.

‘No, you didn’t,’ agrees Loki with a grin.

‘That’s an invasion of my privacy, isn’t it?’ There’s a part of him that wants to yell out how disconcerted he should feel over this, but it’s Loki and he thinks that’s why it’s okay.

‘Very much so.’ Loki gives a cursory glance around the place before disappearing down the hall, backpack in hand.

‘What’s in the bag?’ Thor calls out, as he finds enough food to make himself a half-decent lunch for tomorrow at work. As expected, there is no reply, until Loki emerges into the kitchen in loose sweats and a black t-shirt.

‘Clothes and other miscellaneous things. Watch the news lately?’

‘Couple minutes ago. You’re awful.’

‘Don’t say that, I just do my job well.’

‘You’re baiting a man who has crushed other gangs into dust and holds dangerous people hostage with other dangerous people,’ says Thor.

Loki glances at him. ‘All people are weak – Daddy’s weakness is simply his empire.’

Thor snorts. ‘Again with ‘Daddy’.’

‘Can’t inflate his ego with All-Father,’ replies the other easily, but his expression closes in on itself, shuttered. After stuffing the food into the fridge to grab in the morning, Thor moves closer, a hand touching Loki’s neck, tangling his fingers in the long, dark hair at the nape of his neck.

‘So you’re staying with me, then?’ His voice is light, a smile on his face. Loki palms Thor’s shoulders, feeling the power underneath, a thrill of possession running through his veins.

‘A little while longer.’

‘Great,’ he grins, ‘Chinese in half an hour.’

-

lxvii.

After Thor goes to work in the morning, Loki gets a phone call at mid-morning, where he is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and writing notes.

‘Laufeyson,’ drawls Freya.

‘Thought you guys died,’ replies Loki.

‘The murders are doing quite a lot to cover up Vanaheim’s regrouping. Especially stock falls and all that shit.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ says Freya, ‘look, we’re trying to find a missing person – blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty-six. Need to fuck him too.’

Loki pauses. ‘One, are you asking me for help? Two, are you asking me to let you fuck what’s mine?’

‘Possessive,’ mocks the woman. ‘No, we don’t want your precious Odinson. We want his look-a-like. He’d be scrawnier.’

‘And what’s in it for me, my dear Freya?’

‘Our alliance, fuckface,’ she snarls. ‘Can’t take the throne without a triumvirate.’

Loki rolls his eyes. ‘And you didn’t plan this beforehand, did you?’

‘Yes, I just had all the time in the world to go looking for some young brat while locked up in your basement.’

He massages the bridge of his nose in irritation. ‘If you don’t have his name, Freya, I will personally come kill you and the rest of your people.’

‘Wow, shit, your faith in me is really fucking inspiring,’ she retorts. ‘You have a pen?’

-

lxviii.

At six, Fandral calls him to invite him out for a beer.

‘You healthy enough for that?’ teases Thor.

‘Thor, my body is a temple, and temples are all about the alcohol,’ replies Fandral.

They meet half an hour later in a bar – a clean place that is empty on a Monday night. They order fries and beer and Thor is reminded of that easy time he had with Volstagg, and – with a touch of nostalgia – with Kvasir the last time he was here.

The conversation comes easily between the two – never seeming to ebb over the second round of beers and junk food. Eventually, almost an hour later, it slows and Thor is left taking a long draught of his beer while Fandral talks.

‘Seriously, feels like I haven’t talked to you in ages,’ he remarks over a fry. ‘How are things, man? You look like you haven’t getting enough sleep, I’m just saying.’

Thor smiles. ‘Just some overtime for extra cash.’

‘Lies,’ claims Fandral with a grin. ‘You got yourself into trouble. I know the look.’

‘Because you’ve seen it so many times on your own face, right?’ bites back Thor.

‘You wound me,’ replies the man solemnly. ‘Now, elaborate. Unless it’s about your romantic entanglements. ‘Cause I can’t help you there. You’re on your own, buddy.’

‘No, none of that, it’s over now anyway.’ Thor pops a fry into his mouth with a grin.

‘Fuck you through your lying teeth. Is it the mafia? You dealing?’

Thor promptly chokes on his fry. ‘No, fuck’s sake, Fandral, I got a boyfriend with a lot of baggage.’

Fandral blinks in surprise, his mouth snapping shut. There’s a beat of silence. Then: ‘I was in the hospital and you were busy chasing tail?’

Thor sighs. ‘Drink your beer.’

‘Okay, okay, fine, your boyfriend was worth it, whatever. What kind of baggage you lugging on with your own?’

‘Dead uncle. Cousin.’ Thor’s face scrunches up in confusion. ‘Relative. Friends with this pair of twins. Redheads. Insane.’ He pauses. ‘And has a great-uncle and mother that spend a lot of time being unhelpful.’

‘Oh, the family,’ says Fandral with obvious sympathy. ‘Yeah. I don’t know. Are we meant to drop everything for family? Sounds like a bad deal.’

Thor nurses his beer in contemplation. ‘Sounds easy.’

‘My bad, I’m talking to the one who has healthy relations with said relatives, silly me,’ says Fandral, eating more fries. He chews and swallows, watching Thor’s expression. ‘Sif calls it, like, ‘duty’. Y’know, ‘duty to the family’ and all that. Once you leave a family, though, do you still have duty to it?’

‘But they left you, didn’t they?’ says Thor, curious.

‘Debatable,’ says Fandral. ‘I told ‘em I was going to university and I was studying whatever I wanted and they said alright, have fun, don’t come back, here’s no money. It was a mutual parting, I think.’

Fandral drains the last of his beer and Thor immediately orders a third one to fill in the silence. The waitress comes over and places it in front of Fandral, who grins in thanks.

‘Anyway, just realized that I might have to go back soon. I mean – after my degree and all that. They’re still family, right? And I know they need me. Fuck, I probably need them. I just want to live my life too.’

Fandral sighs. ‘I have a duty to my family, I know that. I always have – since I was a kid. But, fuck, what if I’m not cut out for it? What if I’m not meant to do it? What if I don’t fucking make it? It’s terrifying.’ He takes a breath. ‘That’s why I left. I left because I was scared. This ‘duty to the family’ bullshit – it’s not easy.’

‘Fandral,’ says Thor, quiet, ‘you’re going to be fine.’

‘Am I? Do you have a ‘duty’, Thor? ‘Duty to your boyfriend?’ Have to save him from himself or something?’ Fandral peers up at him in expectantly.

‘I do, yeah, but… it’s easy for me.’ Thor tightens his grip on his beer. ‘It’s scary, of course. I’m not cut out for half the shit I go through for him. I just… I can’t leave him. It’s like pushing him into a nest of vipers and then being forced to watch. There’s always the chance that he’ll survive just fine but… but I’d rather be there with him.’

‘Your self-sacrifice instinct is scary,’ murmurs Fandral, eyes intent.

Thor shrugs. ‘I’d rather do that ‘duty’ than wonder what would happen if I hadn’t.’

‘Shit,’ and the laughter that erupts from Fandral seems to dissolve the solemn atmosphere altogether, ‘you sound like you might get shot.’

-

lxix.

He sleeps in an empty bed that night – Loki curiously absent – but wakes up with an armful of the other, spider fingers in his hair and a leg wedged between his own. Loki smells like smoke and leather and Thor’s soap and he doesn’t hesitate to bring Loki’s sleeping form closer.

Eventually, he has to get up to go to work and he eats toast and eggs while watching the news on mute, making sure he won’t wake up Loki in the bedroom.

There are flashes of pictures of a gun – Jarnsaxa’s gun – and a man in uniform, his mouth moving rapidly through some report in media res, while other cops stand gravely behind him to toss out an air of authority and control. The reporters move restlessly before the police officer, obviously shouting some question or the other, and then there’s a flash of a person.

A young man, his age, maybe younger. With sandy blonde hair and eyes of two different colours, the man seems confused, and Thor reads caption underneath his face, ‘Hod Griminirson’. There is a flurry of movement as he is escorted inside and an old man appears to follow him. Another caption, ‘Grimnir Borrson’ follows the man with the white hair, straight back, and broad shoulders. Though obviously aged, Thor can see the strength in the man’s body, the power he must exude in a crowd.

The All-Father seems dangerously competent as he handles the reporters that dog his steps with a toss of a smile, wave and a few words.

A police officer walks alongside Hod, opening the door into the station, and Grimnir grasps his son’s arm before following him inside. There is a warning in the gesture somewhere, Thor knows – a sign.

For the first time, Thor feels scared of a man he’s never met.

-

lxx.

‘So, this is the address, huh?’ asks Freya, standing in front of an apartment complex as Freyr stares at the piece of paper in his hand.

‘Yeah. He really lives here? Shouldn’t he be with his parents?’ Their gaze follows the names written on the wall beside a buzzer to their respective apartments. 'The name is the same.'

‘What a shithole,’ comments Freya, kicking the brick wall lightly and seeing dust and dirt crumble from the spaces between the bricks. ‘Place’s gonna collapse before the year is out, I swear.’

‘He’ll be moving into our modest estate soon enough,’ replies Freyr, before sighing and ringing the buzzer. ‘Laufeyson better have given us the right information.’

‘The alliance is too precious for him to not have, brother,’ she says, ‘it was sealed in blood, remember?’

‘True enough.’ They stand in silence, waiting for a reply from the buzzer. Freya presses it once more in irritation.

Then: ‘Yes?’

Freya leans right close to the speaker, drawling, ‘it’s the Vanaheim twins. We’ve come to collect.’

-

lxxi.

At work, Thrym pats Thor’s back in some sign of camaraderie and it’s clear that it’s over the news of this morning. Thor does not reciprocate – mostly because he feels a chill and a creeping sense of what if you’re too over your head in this one?

He hurries home after work, driving swiftly through the streets as the sun slides across his skin in a burning reminder of the summer. His apartment is clean and empty, no sign of Loki, but the TV is on, though muted, with the news channel running.

Thor quickly increases the volume, listening intently. On the screen is a woman in front of the police station, young, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a serious expression as she holds the microphone in place. The caption underneath her face reads ‘Darcy Lewis, Reporter on Site’, and her voice comes out clear and rapid as she speaks.

‘The deaths of the three people in the warehouse have been revealed to be Nerthus Vandottir and Njord Vanson along with Skadi Thiassidottir, three leaders of their own businesses under the umbrella corporation called Vanitates. Long held rumours have persisted that these three were linked to the underworld gang Vanaheim – through etymological relations or otherwise, but no tangible evidence had been found until now. It is clear these deaths confirm a gang type event, and now police are following leads in the criminal underworld.

‘Furthermore , a suspect has been brought to the station of the name Hod Grimnirson, heir to the Grimnir corporation along with his twin brother, Baldr. The CEO himself, Grimnir Borrson, has been called to accompany and alleged earlier today that his son had nothing to do with the murders. The corporation itself does not seem to have a clear association to the criminal underworld, as Grimnir has had a very low profile, though they rake in tons of money and influence as the leading transportation business. More shall come as the investigation continues.’

The news switches to business – stocks rising and falling and climate of the economy. He hears the front door of his apartment open and close, the shuffle of Loki’s footsteps growing louder as they come in.

‘You’re home early,’ he comments, carrying a plastic bag and placing it on the kitchen table. Thor follows the other, muting the TV all the while.

‘This is dangerous, Loki, even for you,’ he says.

Loki shrugs. ‘I know the All-Father. He’s going to busy with this. I have a few other details I need to spill before, well.’

‘Before?’

‘The war, Thor,’ he says. ‘The war that’s going to give us Asgard on a plate – all stocks, bonds, businesses, employees, money, influence, and power. We’re going to get it and dispose of the All-Father.’

‘And how? That man – that man that I saw,’ Thor gestures impatiently to the TV in the adjacent room, ‘he’s not going to go down with a fight.’

Loki scowls. ‘He’s an old man and a fool, Thor.’ The other watches Loki pace in the kitchen swiftly, like a pendulum in jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt, hair pushed back with not a strand out of place. ‘We take the war on two fronts – external and internal. Hel will manage the inside and Freya, along with her brother, will manage the outside. All the while, I will be conducting a futile chase around Hod Grimnirson, blind young brat that he is, because Daddy would never bear leaving his son to the bluebloods alone.

‘Do you see now? The All-Father has his plate full. I have made sure of it. Soon enough, he will begin to crumble. He has this city under lockdown – he’s been ruling too long. I am here to free it and conquer it.’

Thor stares at him incredulously. ‘Why?’

Loki makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. ‘Because this city is mine by right.’

‘Because your mother had it? For how long?’ snaps Thor, alarm in his throat. Sometimes he forgets Loki is not sane, that he has lived in a world far different from Thor.

‘A year and a day, she told me,’ replies the other. ‘She called them the days of Eden.’

‘And you just want that back?’

Loki comes forward to Thor, sliding fingers through the blonde hair, his mouth twisting upwards in some dangerous smile. ‘I want years of Eden. Decades. A lifetime.’

‘You can have it here, Loki,’ tries Thor softly, ‘in this apartment. You can have a life with a job like the rest of us, and a place to stay and a person to be with.’

‘Thor,’ says Loki, ‘I’m doing this for us.’

‘What?’

He shakes his head, pulling away. ‘Your morals get in the way too much. You should leave this to me.’

‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Loki. Last time, you went in a goddamn warehouse with two armed, psychotic twins and had just a knife. What if they had turned on you? What would you have done? I’m not going to sit back and let you fucking bleed.’

The tension thrums and Loki wants to taste it – feel the care and worry on his tongue, let it slip into his bloodstream and bleach his black heart. ‘I am going to be fine, Thor. You might want to protect yourself, though.’

Thor growls, a hand coming up to grip Loki’s shoulder, forcibly pulling him close, his face ducking down to not lose eye contact. ‘I will do whatever the fuck I want and if that means protecting you, then that’s that.’

Dimly, Loki wonders if Thor can see his pupils dilate, blooming so the green of his iris is just a ring, because that promise of power in Thor’s grip is deliciously hot, burning into his skin. Perhaps he can, because Thor ducks down, crushing his mouth against Loki hard and fast, teeth clacking as strong, callused hands grip Loki’s waist and shove him against the table.

Loki bucks against Thor, dragging his clothed half-hard cock across the bigger man’s thigh, as he is manhandled roughly into taking his shirt off. Thor’s tongue slips messily over his teeth, and the blonde man bites against Loki’s bottom lip, blood bursting under the small cut and licked up eagerly.

It’s hot and fast, the way their clothes are pulled off in rough, harsh yanks, nails scraping over the skin and their cocks – finally, bare skin against bare skin – sliding across and next to each other, shooting bolts of pleasure up their spines.

Loki keens, his nails digging into Thor’s shoulderblades, but Thor does not relent. He wrenches off Loki’s grip and flips the other over, dragging the smaller man’s hips upwards and tracing the pad of his finger over the skin around Loki’s entrance.

‘You’re here, with me now, Loki,’ Thor tells him, his front draped over the other’s spine, mouth touching the shell of Loki’s ear. Loki swallows, his mouth dry as he listens to the murmuring. ‘You’re mine now, mine to eat with, mine to sleep with,’ and his breath skitters across Loki’s cheek, his cock a hot brand against skin, the head bumping against the fluttering hole, ‘and mine to fuck.’

Loki’s voice comes out in a guttural groan, his fingers scrabbling forward to dig his nails into the wood as the edge of the table presses almost painfully against the soft skin of his abdomen. ‘Then do it, Thor,’ he pants, bucking back in some pale imitation of getting fucked.

He hears the man spit and the slick sound of wet hand on dick. Soon after, Thor’s hand exposes the entrance, working in his cock, a slow burn sliding its way up Loki’s nerve endings, frying his brain to nothing. His mind is white noise and everything narrows down the press of the table, the hot thickness of Thor’s prick and his own twitching arousal. Instinctively, he grasps his own cock, working it with short, quick thrusts, and Thor lets him – concentrating more on getting balls deep into the other.

Agonizing minutes later, Thor is panting against Loki’s ear, his hips trembling as he is completely inside the other. Loki whines, his body shuddering, and his hand works his own cock faster.

‘Well?’ he asks between pants, ‘aren’t you going to do anything?’

Thor responds by sliding a hand up from Loki’s hip to his shoulder, grasping it tight, and the other hand remains on the other hip. Through the corner of his eye, Loki can see the tight, corded muscle of Thor’s arm and he feels his cock spitting precome at the thought of being fucked to pieces.

‘Do it, Thor,’ he says. ‘fucking do it.’

And Thor does – his thrusts commencing with a sudden violence. Loki can feel the edge of the table chafe against his skin as he is pitched forward by the strength, feeling his insides be ruined through the heat and harshness. It’s brutally good the way Thor’s cock slides in and out of him, lubricated solely through spit and precome, and thank fucking god he got fucked last night and was still slightly loose from it –

‘Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,’ he repeats, a litany, a prayer, a beg, as he feels Thor shove hard, over and over, the tip of his cock reaching deep inside and sending jolts of pure, delirious pleasure.

Thor’s voice then, as he fucks into Loki, ‘only I can do this to you, only me.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ pants Loki, his hips suddenly responding as he finds the energy to push off the table and meet each thrust. Thor groans, and the rhythm gets harsher, messier, better. His nails are entrenched in the wood and his hand is holding his own cock almost too tight as he moves. He tries for a different angle, for a different momentum, a different anything to get Thor deeper, to feel drowned in heat and sex and touch.

‘Thor – fuck – more,’ he says, and bless – Thor obliges, the hand on Loki’s shoulder stiffening as he bodily pulls and has Loki be pitched backwards, hips meeting with a loud, obscene sound, and dimly, Loki wonders if Thor’s neighbors can hear them but he doesn’t give a damn – not now –

The pleasure has to mount up eventually – and Loki’s hand moves again on his own cock, slip sliding the precome over it as he jerks himself with rough, short strokes. He moves it in counterpoint with the thrusts, feeling the shiver of Thor’s hands on him and knows Thor is going to come soon too.

Loki comes first, of course, with a name half-moaned on his tongue, coating his own hand in warm semen, and his body shivers with the aftershocks, clenching and unclenching, milking Thor. Thor groans, harsh and loud, a growled out ‘Loki’ as if he’s still upset, and Loki feels it for the first time – what it is to have a twitching cock inside of him and how it feels to be coated in come, the most intimate mark of possession.

Thor pulls out a minute later, collapsing in the chair beside the table, his head laid back, as he idly kicks the jeans on the kitchen floor. ‘I… I shouldn’t have done that,’ he says softly.

Loki snorts, feeling come trickle down the inside of his thigh. It’s an odd feeling, disconcerting, but it’s Thor, so it’s fine.

‘You know it was consensual,’ he says, propping himself onto the table. Idly, he rubs at the reddened skin on his abdomen. ‘Though the table was quite rough.’

Thor laughs, a hand covering his eyes, dragging it down his face in some gesture of tiredness and incredulity. ‘You’re getting come on my table, you ass.’

‘You’re the one who put it there, you prick,’ retorts Loki, but his expression is soft.

It is not a solution but it will do.

Somewhere, Loki loves that he quietly corrupts Thor, brings him to his instinctual knees, has him hurt others and be violent. He will bring Thor to him, black heart and empty soul, all golden brilliance transformed –

– because, somewhere, Loki fears that Thor could never have him otherwise.

-

lxxii.

There’s a phone call on Wednesday. In fact, there’s two. One for him and the other for Loki.

The first comes in the morning, too early for either of them to be awake, and Loki answers it with grumbling and barely suppressed cussing. The sleep from his eyes quickly disappears when the conversation runs on. Rapidly, Loki puts the phone on speaker mode and grabs a pen and pencil from the bedside table, scribbling down things

Thor realizes the voice on the other end is Hel, all husky and deep.

‘ – haven’t been receiving any messages or actions to take. Grimnir seems to be entrenched with the bluebloods, can’t make contact with the smaller gangs. My brother will be released by next week, though I’m not sure whether the hostage situation will continue.’

‘I’ll check on that. I have to pay him a visit soon. I’ll do it today. Do as you need to as usual.’

‘Yes, I know that much, Laufeyson,’ she snaps. ‘The shit has hit the goddamn fan, there are bluebloods trying to get into his house and the media thinks of nosing their way into financial records and front companies he owns.’

‘Financial discrepancies, that’s my girl,’ murmurs Loki with a smile on his lips. He turns to the phone, ‘why are you worried about front companies? You’re not listed on it.’

‘It really is too early in the morning for you,’ she sighs. ‘The soliciting company is separate and has no particular affiliation to Grimnir. However, they could trace back to my brother and Nidavellier.’

‘You couldn’t just leave your fucking brother, could you,’ he sighs irritably.

‘Would you leave yours?’ she asks sharply. ‘I’ll be sure to tell Helblindi that.’

‘Shut up. Now, back to Nidavellier – transfer ownership. Buy up the stocks, bonds, get a stake.’

‘As if I have enough money to do that. I’m just a small, locally owned soliciting business.’

‘And Nidavellier’s front company is a small, locally owned landscaping business,’ snaps Loki.

‘The ownership is in the hands of Baldr Grimnirson. Proclaimed as his small success. Really, it’s just a training ground for Baldr to come into his father’s shoes. Can’t conquer the brat’s one accomplishment, however contrived.’

‘Fine, I’ll think of something. Stay where you are and tell me more as it comes in.’

‘Will you be making contact with the other branches?’

‘Should I?’ Loki says this as if in curiosity, and Thor is surprised at the small show of dependency on Hel. It is a concession of trust and he is reminded of the history that runs in the blood of those who traverse the criminal underworld.

‘Svartalfheim was never kind to you.’

Loki flinches. ‘No.’ A breath. ‘Alfheim, then?’

‘In a state of perpetual high, Loki,’ replies Hel with a sigh. ‘I will have Fenrir scope out Nidavellier for my brother’s return. I’ll call you later.’

‘Safety and secrecy should be your priority. Daddy is going to pull out his fangs soon enough.’

‘Claws, Loki. Your metaphors get worse and worse.’ She’s teasing, realizes Thor dimly. ‘Have a good day and try not to fuck up.’

‘Goodbye to you, Hel,’ replies Loki, his hand moving rapidly with words over the paper. He ends the note quickly, before flopping back onto the bed, drawing the covers over his head. Thor can feel him shift and slide, pressing against the bigger man, tucking his chin in the space between Thor’s neck and shoulder.

‘Not worried?’ he murmurs in Loki’s hair.

‘No,’ is the reply, pressing in his skin. That is what worries Thor – this nonchalance, this easy way Loki runs his schemes and plans, manipulating, twisting, using, killing… He wraps an arm around Loki’s waist, feels the warmth, and tries to hold on. Keep him close. Keep him here.

Only an hour later is another phone call and it is for Thor.

He answers it blearily, with Loki curled like a cat against his side, and is surprised to hear Fandral’s voice on the other side.

‘Hey, Thor, did I wake you up?’ A laugh, quiet. ‘Sorry, man.’

‘Fandral,’ greets Thor.

There’s a hitch of breath on the other side of the line. ‘Just… just wanted to tell you. There’s been a family emergency.’

‘Shit, Fandral, you alright?’ Thor is propped up on his shoulder, ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

‘Yeah, just,’ another deep breath, ‘you know… you know how we talked about ‘duty’, man?’

‘Fandral, look, if you need help – ’

‘Thor, just listen,’ says Fandral firmly. ‘My duty is tattooed on my goddamn skin, alright? And it’s time I paid up to the family. I – I won’t be around, so tell the others about it, okay?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘My aunt and uncle passed away recently is all,’ says Fandral, voice easy and superficial. ‘I need to help my cousins with some unfinished business. Family will and all. Might – might have heard it on the news, yeah.’

‘Fan – ’

‘You’re a great friend, man. You were one of the best. Sif and Volstagg and Hogun and you. I couldn’t ask for more. But I don’t think I’ll be able to see you guys again. I’m going to be busy, y’know,’ some quiet laugh, ‘I should have told you guys in advance. About my family. I should have.’

‘You can tell me now, Fandral. We’ll help you out, you know that,’ says Thor fiercely, worry spilling up his throat.

‘Stop that – your self-sacrifice instinct bullshit is going to get you killed, Thor,’ chides the other. ‘Trust me. Anyway, I just called you now because I know I won’t get the chance after this.’

‘What is happening?’

‘Family secret, man. Shit you don’t need to get involved in. Ever.’

‘I’m already involved in shit, alright,’ snarls Thor.

‘Thor… Thor, ask Hogun about this, alright? I’m sure he would know – or at least be able to figure it out. Smart dude.’

‘About what?’

A pause, and Fandral’s voice drops to a whisper. ‘I have a tattoo. You’ve probably never seen it. It’s on my back, and it’s a bunch of ocean waves.’

It strikes him then – that moment, when Fandral tried to stand up in the hospital and Thor had caught him and saw the purple, green, yellow bruising on the man’s shoulder blades – and he wants to yell out in alarm, tell Fandral it’s not true, that he’s not a Vanaheim member, that he has no obligations to anything that dangerous and –

‘Don’t – ’

‘Shit – fuck, my cousins, I need to go,’ and Fandral abruptly hangs up, leaving Thor with a dial tone and his heartbeat working at a few thousand miles per hour. There is a flurry of movement and he’s trying to move from the bed, but Loki catches him around the torso, rolling him onto his back and pinning him there.

‘Get off, Loki,’ snarls Thor and Loki doesn’t move.

‘Your friend will be alright. Fandral is it? Fandral the heir to Vanaheim, Fandral the outsider, outcast, foster child of Vanaheim. You should have known this beforehand.’

‘Freya will kill him,’ snaps Thor, eyes wide, ‘and you knew? You didn’t tell me!’

Loki rolls his eyes. ‘There was no reason to. If he was your friend, he would have told you himself. Didn’t he?’

‘Fuck you,’ spits Thor, face twisting in fury, ‘what else do you know?’

‘Nothing, you stupid oaf,’ says Loki with a scowl, ‘I didn’t know about Fandral until two days ago. He is necessary for the twins to ascend the throne of Vanaheim.’

‘You fucking liar.’

Loki leans in close, growing angry. ‘I would never lie to you, Thor, you know that. I don’t lie to you.’

‘I’m supposed to believe that?’

‘Yes.’

Thor clenches his jaw, glaring balefully at Loki, who matches his gaze without hesitation. Then, finally, he relaxes agonizingly slow, muscles loosening and his face smoothing out to fatigue and some hint of despair.

‘Trust, Thor,’ says Loki quietly, fingers tracing lines down Thor’s throat, but he gets no answer, and somehow, that’s even worse.

-

Chapter Text

-

lxxiii.

‘He lies to you,’ Ymir says, taking a sip of water as he watches the long regal neck of the woman in front of him.

Frigga looks at him, eyes distant. ‘Does he? I would never have guessed.’

He sighs. ‘Your sarcasm is unneeded.’ There is a pause where she finally tears her gaze away from the cityscape seen from the window behind his desk and finally, with a heavy breath, challenges him with steady blue eyes.

‘My husband seems to be involved in a murder case. He thinks me deaf and blind but I know. I will not have my livelihood threatened.’

‘Of course… Your livelihood,’ hums Ymir, contemplating her. ‘There has been a few incidents the past few days, I will admit. But we have an agreement – your words for mine.’

Her fingers tighten into fists and her neck becomes a tower underneath the curl of gold that spills over her shoulders. Her smile is ice cold. ‘Yes. My husband for your information.’

-

lxxiv.

The Wednesday passes by under burning summer heat and a gut twisted in worry as Thor ends the day at his work before immediately calling Sif. He had woken up early that day, unsurprised over Loki’s absence, and tried to think the situation through while at his job. It hadn’t helped. Fandral was the third heir of Vanaheim and that meant he was in danger.

‘Thor?’ answers Sif after three rings and he can’t hold back.

‘Fandral is in a gang, Sif,’ he says, in a rush, ‘he’s in a goddamn gang and we need to get him out or I – I don’t – ’ I don’t know what will happen to him. I am supposed to be the only one involved in this. I can’t protect him if he’s involved. It sticks to his throat like molasses, unwilling to be spoken aloud.

Sif will understand, Sif always does. Sif is smart. Sif will get them through. This is Thor’s undying belief, and he feels relieved when her voice comes through the phone, clear and concise, ‘hold on, wait, I’ll call Hogun and Volstagg and meet you at the bar in an hour, okay?’

‘Okay.’

-

lxxv.

Odin glances over the sheet of paper in his hands at his oldest son and simply watches, just for a moment, his son, Baldr. He is built like his father – broad shoulders, square torso, wide hands – but he has the delicate cheekbones and ice cold blue eyes of Frigga. Yet neither parents’ genetics can explain the innocent expression Baldr always seems to carry – twenty three and young, his face a smooth slate of perfect obliviousness.

‘You are aware of the scandal your little brother is in?’ Little is a stretch. Baldr was born nine minutes earlier than Hod, and yet Odin cannot fathom how they could be so opposite. Baldr – easy and pleasant and a good marksman, and Hod the stuttering, stumbling son. Yet, it would do no use to ponder it now, of course. They had a crisis on their hands.

Baldr cocks his head, ‘is that a trick question?’

‘No. I have received some documents that I want you to look over. After that, I want you to find your brother an alibi.’ Odin slides the sheet of paper – a picture of a gun and two bullet casings crumpled up beside the weapon – inside a folder and passes it over the desk to Baldr.

‘Dad, is this…’ There is a pause, and Odin looks at his son expectantly. ‘Is this a test?’

He smiles in turn. ‘It always is, Baldr.’

There is a twist to the young man’s mouth, half-ugly in the light. ‘Of course.’

-

lxxvi.

Ten minutes before he reaches the bar, his phone rings. Thor fumbles for it and answers without looking as he drives through the city, ‘yeah?’

‘Are you off work already?’ drawls Loki from the other end and Thor has every mind to hang up on him.

‘Fuck off,’ he snaps.

Loki makes a noise of irritation but chooses to ignore the words, ‘now, Thor, I will assume you’re going on a little rescue mission for Fandral now, aren’t you?’

It sometimes makes him wonder how Loki knows him so well, but he pushes the thought aside. ‘What does it matter to you?’

‘Only that you provide them good reason as to why you know what you know. Are you going to admit you’re in a gang, Thor? That you’re involved in the underworld? My, my, you hypocritical man.’

‘And what? You expect me to stay down and watch as Freya carves my friend to pieces for her and her brother’s gain?’

‘You misunderstand me,’ sighs Loki. ‘Do what you want, but don’t interfere with my plans. And think of a good reason why you’re snooping around the underworld without bringing my name into it.’

Thor grits his teeth. ‘Self-centered as always.’

‘And vain too, I suppose,’ he replies. ‘How about… you found Fandral because you were looking for your father?’

Thor starts, glancing at his phone in surprise. ‘What do you mean, Loki?’

There is a pause. ‘You don’t know who Odin is, do you?’

It strikes him hard, leaves him silent and hurting.

He remembers his mother – her soft hands, her wide smile, her gentle eyes, the long golden hair that framed her face. She was always quiet, her voice a cadence that he would sometimes strain to hear. He remembers long walks through the city beside her, her words encouraging him to do sports, put his boundless energy into something.

He remembers many things – he remembers asking her about his last name – ‘Odinson’ – and her saying they would talk about it later. Over the years, he would search their house – photos, birth certificates, paper records tucked away in the corners. He would ask her who is he, who is ‘Odin’. Never would she say anything.

Then she got sick, he remembers, feeling his chest grow tight. She passed away and he was left with a death certificate and thousands of questions hanging in the air. ‘Your name is Thor Odinson, Thor Jordson, and you are an orphan’ – or at least they tell him so, because he’s never known.

‘How do you know that?’ Thor asks, because it is something close to him, something he doesn’t expose to others, and who is Loki to know his vulnerable secret?

‘Because I know who Odin is, Thor,’ says Loki softly.

‘Tell me, Loki,’ says Thor in a rush, his breath spilling over in anticipation. ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s not yet time, dear,’ replies Loki, the endearment sliding out with an aching familiarity that Thor has only known with his mother.

‘Lok – !’ he yells, desperate, but he is met with a dial tone as the other hangs up, and he is left staring out at the street, his heart racing, as the bar comes into view.

-

lxxvii.

Loki pushes the wheelchair down the ramp, rolling her out of the shadow of the building into the sun, letting the rays coat over her skin, dying her golden orange.

‘Look at that, sister, you don’t burn up in the sun,’ he drawls and Hel clicks her tongue in irritation.

‘I don’t see why we have to take a walk outside to have a conversation, Loki.’

‘Because fresh air is surprisingly good for one’s health, Hel, in case you had never noticed.’

‘You only go outside when you want to discuss your plans,’ she says, ‘or you have something personal.’

Loki hums, not replying and Hel sighs, tracing patterns on the armrest of her wheelchair as she is pushed down the sidewalk. ‘Fenrir just returned from Nidavellier. You know what he saw?’

‘Do tell.’

‘Baldr was getting together a few men around there. He means to start something. Perhaps his own private investigation in the framing of his baby brother.’

‘Perhaps, Hel? ‘

She snorts. ‘I did my own calls to Jormungandr’s friends. He means to find the perpetrator and an alibi for Hod. Direct orders from the All-Father.’

‘Another training ground for his son, then,’ says Loki, ‘I will not be available on Friday so do keep me updated.’

‘A hot date, Loki?’ she teases, and feels herself roll to a stop at a crosswalk. The traffic is sparse and the sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows of the buildings over the pavement. Grey clouds swell in the horizon and the temperature dips to pleasantly cool.

‘Don’t mock,’ he says, and she sighs.

‘Of course. Kvasir’s funeral.’ Hel licks her mouth before continuing, ‘I do warn you though – the rumours I have been hearing are that you have a new beau.’

‘True enough.’

‘A man named Donald Blake or, well. The second name carries heavier implication.’

‘Not many know who Odin is, Hel,’ says Loki, ‘we only know him because we’re Laufey’s children – ’

‘You are,’ she interrupts. ‘I am Angrbodadottir.’

‘You were once, Hel,’ he says, a touch irritated. A beat, then: ‘semantics aside, when does your brother leave?’

‘Jormungandr will be out by next week. Monday or Tuesday, I will have to check.’

‘Alright. If Baldr is moving, I shall have to as well. You know what to do once you meet him. Lead him.’ He turns the wheelchair around, signaling the end of the conversation, and Hel watches the shadows swell and shift as they pass them by. A moment later, she begins to hum a song and watches the horizon where grey clouds swell. ‘A storm approaches.’

‘So it does,’ murmurs Loki, and he hums with her, all the way till the end.

-

lxxviii.

‘Okay, start from the beginning,’ says Sif, her eyes wide and attentive. Volstagg and Hogun sit at the table, watching him closely as he takes a breath. Some vague part of him knows that Loki has a point – that he can only protect his friends if they know he’s not involved with the underworld, and so don’t chase after him.

Lying comes easier and easier to you, doesn’t it? A voice titters, but he drowns it out with a swig of his beer and spreading his hands on the table. ‘I got a phone call last night.’ He runs through it quickly, describing the tattoo and seeing recognition flutter over Hogun’s face.

‘That’s Vanaheim,’ says Hogun after Thor has finished. ‘They specialize in arms running.’

‘What, seriously? Fandral smuggles guns?’ asks Sif, incredulous. ‘Okay, why is Fandral in a gang?’

This time Hogun speaks, his eyes sharp and intent. ‘Another question: how did you know it was a gang, Thor? You have been awfully curious about things like this.’ Leave it to Hogun to notice, thinks Thor with a tinge of pride. There was a reason his friend had already gotten so far in his job.

After a moment, Thor licks his mouth, preparing himself, before: ‘I’m just… These past few weeks, I met someone. And… they might know who my dad is.’ The shorter the lie, the easier, he knows, and always with a grain of truth.

His friends have identical reactions – a flicker of shock over their faces before it smoothes out to understanding and sympathy. He quirks a smile of reassurance at them and they nod in return.

‘We can discuss my dad later,’ says Thor quickly, ‘first comes Fandral.’

‘Okay, fact: Fandral is in a gang,’ starts Sif, ‘another fact: it’s Vanaheim, which is apparently a very big gang. Finally, we need to get Fandral out. Okay, how? Hogun, do you know how it goes?’

‘We usually take the person into custody, put them through trial if we can convict someone through their testimonies and also place them in witness protection,’ says Hogun. ‘We’ll need to get into contact with Fandral somehow.’

‘I have keys to his place,’ says Volstagg, ‘we can go there first.’

‘No, not we.’ Hogun shakes his head, his voice low and grave. ‘I’ll do it. I’m a cop. I have the resources to protect myself if I need to.’

Sif looks at him, ‘we have your back.’ He nods and smiles. ‘I know.’

‘If you need help, we’re here,’ presses Volstagg, ‘I can get you the keys when I head back to my place. Then go and see if you can meet him and place him in witness protection.’

‘It might take a few days. I’ll camp out at his place,’ replies Hogun. He looks at Thor, ‘we will discuss your father later, after Fandral is safe.’

‘Of course,’ replies Thor, thankful and warm. Outside, the sky darkens when they all leave the bar, murmuring goodbye as they drift into each direction. Thor takes a breath, smells ozone in the air, and heads home.

-

lxxix.

When Thor comes home, dropping his bag on the kitchen table and heading down the hall to the bedroom to change out of his work clothes, he is surprised to see Loki standing in the middle dressed to the nines – suit, trench coat, green tie and leather gloves.

Thor frowns, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on his dresser, walking past Loki to his closet.

‘You know about my father – about Odin,’ says Thor, his voice loud in the silence, as he rummages for a wife beater and some shorts. He turns to see Loki glance over, adjusting the fit of the glove over his hand, before shrugging.

‘Odin is a nickname. His real name is something else.’ The gloved fist clenches and opens stiffly. ‘You’ve been looking for the wrong person all this time. You shouldn’t be called Odinson.’

‘What is his name then?’ asks Thor impatiently as he heads to the entrance of the bedroom, fully intent on leaving to shower if Loki refuses to answer. ‘And how do you know this?’

Loki seems intent on ignoring him. ‘I will be going away for a few days. I have a job that I need to do. The final preliminary event until the war begins. I will be home by Tuesday, I would assume. Don’t wait up.’ He looks over at Thor, a smirk smeared over his face, before he begins to move away.

In annoyance, Thor leans against the entrance of the bedroom, blocking the way. ‘Why won’t you tell me? I have a right to know.’

There is a snort of mocking laughter. ‘You don’t have a right to anything.’

Just when Thor is about to retort, he sees Loki’s expression change from amusement to a cold gravity, voice dropping low ‘I promise you that I will tell you when I come back from this job. I don’t hide this from you because I like torturing you, Thor. Why won’t you just trust me?’

‘Because you’re like this,’ says Thor, half in exasperation, ‘because you threaten my friends to get to me, because you let one into a gang, because you won’t tell me my own goddamn father’s name.’

‘I do it to protect you,’ snaps Loki, a hand coming up, gloved fingers wrapping around the side of Thor’s neck. It feels simultaneously affectionate and threatening. Thor stills, listening, as Loki continues: ‘I do it so you won’t get yourself fucking shot because there are people, Thor, that would love to get to me and if they knew about you…’

‘I’m not part of this… this war of yours, Loki,’ growls Thor. It feels like they’re treading old ground again – and he feels irritated and tired of it. ‘It’s just a name. It should mean nothing to you.’

The other makes an impatient noise. ‘Have you ever stopped to wonder why I know your father?’ asks Loki. The silence hangs in the hair and Loki leans so close that Thor can feel the breath wash over him when the man sighs. ‘You’re mine, Thor. And I will do what I need to keep you with me. I do this for you. For us. All of it.’

‘But I’m not yours,’ he says, voice soft, watching the long, dark fringes of Loki’s lashes as they flutter shut.

He doesn’t expect the hand on his neck to suddenly tighten and Loki’s poison green eyes to flash before Loki himself bites down on the other side of his throat, harsh and painful. Thor hisses – hand coming up to tangle into the man’s dark hair, as the teeth sink into his skin.

Loki’s mouth is a hot, wet brand as he presses his tongue against the sore, red welt, before pulling away, a smear of red on his bottom lip. His gloved hand is still tight around Thor’s throat, yet he smiles all the same. ‘Remember that. You are mine. You have always been.’

Thor swallows, teeth clenched as he feels the wetness from the bite. He can’t tell if it’s the saliva or the blood, but it hurts. ‘You’re deluded,’ he says, managing the words from the grasp on his throat.

‘Am I?’ Loki bites at the edge of a glove, peeling it off his free hand, before slipping his fingers over Thor’s skin. The glove falls onto the ground while his hand skates upwards, thumbing a nipple and feeling the shiver that comes with. ‘You should have pulled away by now,’ murmurs Loki. ‘You should have stopped me.’

Thor doesn’t move – the hand on his throat feels like a brand, the bite mark burning. It isn’t that he can’t move, simply that he doesn’t want to. Loki is the unpredictable mess, the volatile chemical, the fickle variable – and Thor won’t deny that he is fascinated. Caught horribly in Loki’s web of manipulation, of violence, of sex. And, no matter what Loki does, Thor will always, always let him back in.

Loki seems to know this – he smirks, leaning forward to kiss Thor on the mouth and Thor opens up to feel that heat, the wetness of the other’s tongue as it traces the sharp ridges of his teeth and leaves the taste of smoke in his mouth.

The kiss is quick, meaning to distract until Loki has unbuttoned his pants and grasped the base of his cock. Slowly, he strokes Thor, as he watches the man’s face – eyes open and disconcertingly bright. Thor feels like he’s suffocating under the gaze and touch, his fingers still tangled in Loki’s hair, the other hand coming up to the man’s waist.

‘You won’t pull away,’ says Loki, his voice low and pleased, sending a shiver down Thor’s spine, ‘you’ll let me do this to you.’

‘You won’t hurt me,’ says Thor quietly, and it is a wonder how he believes it – wholeheartedly. Loki huffs out a laugh, letting go of Thor’s throat and pushing against him, walking him slowly backwards until the blonde man’s knees hit the edge of the bed. Thor’s hands come to push at Loki’s clothes, peeling them off, letting them pool onto the floor in a pile of black.

He is left in his white shirt, green tie and black trousers, and Thor thinks he’s gorgeous – dangerously so. Loki is all straight, sharp lines and mussed long, dark hair. He smiles, a long stretch of white teeth, and leans forward, shimmying off Thor’s jeans and underwear, leaving him naked on the bed.

‘Now be a darling,’ murmurs Loki, mouth skimming over Thor’s cheek, kissing the shell of his ear, ‘and suck my cock.’

The full body shiver that racks down Thor’s spine is experienced by Loki’s fingers over his ribs, sliding over his shoulders and pulling Thor forward – off the bed and on his knees. Thor swallows, watching Loki for anything. For the first time Thor feels out of control and out of his element. It’s new and dizzying and hot as he nuzzles at Loki’s crotch, feeling a smirk on his lips when Loki hisses.

Unbuttoning and unzipping the trousers, Thor pulls out Loki’s half-hard cock, exposing it to the humid air before kissing the tip. He strokes it, feeling it harden and arch, and listening to how Loki’s breath quickens.

‘What do you want again?’ asks Thor, sardonic laughter hidden in the corner of his mouth, and Loki seems to humour him, dragging his blunt fingernails gently over Thor’s scalp, tangling in the long, golden hair.

‘I want your wet mouth on my cock, Thor,’ he replies, easy and low, before he gently pushes Thor forward, letting the man swallow him down inch by inch. It’s a heavy weight in his mouth, but manageable, and Thor sucks, laving at the hard ridge of the cockhead with his tongue and getting a sharp gasp in return.

He bobs his head, the wetness of his mouth making obscene noises in the room, as his hands grasp Loki’s hips for balance. Loki groans, feeling Thor pull back, suckling at the head, collecting the precome beading from the tip onto his tongue. Thor pops off, licking a long stripe from root to tip, a hand coming to stroke the skin around Loki’s fluttering hole.

‘Such a good cock-sucker you are,’ says Loki warmly and Thor touches the edges of Loki’s dick with his teeth in return, eyes flashing with rebellion. The smaller man sighs. ‘I mean it. Now suck me deeper. Make me wet enough to fuck you.’

Thor can’t stifle the groan of want, his cock twitching at the image of him spread open by Loki, being pushed over and over again to the edge of orgasm each time. He mouths at Loki’s dick, littering the underside in kisses before slowly spreading his lips open as he swallows each inch down.

In tiny increments, Thor loosens his jaw and throat, breathing slowly, as he deep throats the cock – feeling the heat and heaviness on his tongue. He inadvertently swallows, and Loki groans at the feeling, his fingers tightening in Thor’s hair. In turn, Thor pulls back before moving down again, sucking down every last part of Loki’s dick, coating it in spit.

He palms his own cock, not daring to stroke lest he come, and bobs over Loki’s prick, working it as wet as he can, his tongue teasing the rigid cockhead, the tip, a thick vein underneath. Loki is panting now – completely gone, as he watches with an unwavering gaze as Thor sucks, before growling, ‘such a greedy slut. Stop and lie with hands and knees on the bed. Going to fuck you with this dick you’re so wet for now.’

Thor pulls off with a loud, wet noise, lips swollen and red. He is turned on beyond anything – his skin feels lit up, the blood sounding like an ocean in his ears as his mouth goes dry with anticipation. Slowly, he stands up, getting on the bed. His cock hangs heavy with arousal between his and he presses his face against the sheets, curving his spine and jutting his hips out. If Loki wanted him like this, Thor would give it the best he had.

There’s the telltale sound of condom and lube leaving the dresser beside the bed and being opened and used. Loki’s cock fits in the curve of his ass, the lapels of his trousers pressing against the back of Thor’s thighs.

‘Clothed?’ huffs out the blonde man and the thought make his dick twitch.

‘Just for you,’ replies Loki, his fingers slick and cold with lube as he works Thor’s hole open, spreading him open stroke by stroke. Thor is a writhing, shivering mess – his mouth pressed against the sheet as Loki stretches him, spearing him open on fingers that crook and curve. He feels Loki place a kiss at the base of his spine, warm and gentle, before: ‘lift your face, let me hear you, I want to hear you ache for my cock.’

Loki can’t see him, knows Thor, and suddenly it’s a liberating thought. He props himself up on his elbows, and he feels his face twist in pleasure, feel his jaw loosen and hang as he rocks himself on the other’s fingers. Loki can’t see his face like this – panting and wet and unwaveringly desirous, lust written in every twist of his mouth as he groans out, low and loud, and it feels good.

A minute later, the fingers retreat and are replaced by the blunt, hot head of Loki’s cock and Thor takes him in, all of him, until Loki is pressed tight against him, the zipper and button of his trousers digging into Thor’s thighs.

‘God, take it,’ sighs out Loki against Thor’s shoulderblade, ‘take my cock, god you’re so good, you were made for this.’ There is a whine stuck in Thor’s throat as he struggles to adjust. Eventually, it comes – the stretch slipping up his spine until he’s ready to move his hips, rocking against the smaller man.

‘Then give it, Loki,’ groans Thor, ‘I’m waiting.’ He hears laughter – soft and pressed against his skin – before Loki’s fingers curl around his hips and then moves. Thor feels like he has his breath punched out of him when Loki fucks into him – harsh and deep, hips snapping against him without missing a beat.

‘You were made for my cock, you were made for me,’ growls Loki into Thor’s ear, his back draped along the man’s spine as his hips piston in and out of the man, ‘you are mine, in – uhn – every single way.’ Thor hisses and pants underneath him, feeling overwhelmed by the sensations, his own hand snaking down to stroke his cock.

‘So what does – hah – that make you?’ bites back Thor, forehead pressed against the sheets as his hips rock back to meet each thrust. ‘It makes you mine too, Loki – fuck – ’ Loki grinds into him, his cock hot and thick and pressing ruthlessly into Thor.

‘Thor,’ the most breathy, desperate whine imprinted against Thor and he feels his stomach clench as he cries out when Loki fucks into him again and again and again, never relenting, ruining him from inside with pleasure.

‘Faster, Loki, more,’ says Thor in a huff, his hand moving even more rapidly over his own cock, feeling his orgasm crest and wanting the other to come soon.

‘My cockslut,’ is the reply – voice going back to something steady and low and perfectly Loki. The thrusts increase in pace, the rhythm becoming brutal as Loki’s own release runs up his thighs, waiting. Thor groans, fucking himself back on the other’s cock, feeling stuffed and yet wanting it all – wanting Loki to fall with him, wanting to step into oblivion with Loki at his side – a hopeless, helpless desire –

Thor rocks himself between Loki’s cock and the hand on his own, finding a rhythm that begins to stutter the moment he gets it and it feels so close – he manages a groaned, ‘Loki,’ before spilling over the sheets, coating his fingers with warm semen.

His muscles spasm, clenching and unclenching as Loki falters – his thrusts getting sloppy and messy, though no less rough and deep, shooting sparks up Thor’s spine even post-orgasm, and he feels his hole milk Loki’s cock ruthlessly, taking it in deep and tight and hot until, finally, with a muffled, ‘Thor,’ Loki comes.

Thor can feel the warm, comforting weight of Loki over his back, the man’s breath a hot, tickling reminder on the back of his neck. A minute later, he feels Loki slip out, hears the sound of a condom being taken off and thrown into the trashcan and, finally, the telltale rustle of clothes.

The air feels different to Thor – something like intimacy, like words unspoken by Loki hanging in the air. He thinks it feels pleasant, if different, and he turns around, sated but craving a shower, watching as Loki pulls over his trenchcoat, pocketing the leather gloves.

‘Be back Tuesday, then?’ asks Thor, standing up and gathering his clothes.

‘I would hope.’ Loki sucks in a breath, before finally looking back at Thor. ‘I will tell you everything when I return. I promise that.’

‘Just,’ he struggles to find the words, before reaching out and grasping the other’s shoulder, squeezing it tight. ‘Be careful, alright?’

‘I always am,’ smirks Loki, ‘you just don’t believe me.’

Thor doesn’t reply because he doesn’t know how. Worry gnaws at him, so does a creeping distrust, and yet – and yet –

‘I love you,’ he blurts, and he feels exposed a second later. Vulnerable. Yet it’s worth it, to see Loki’s eyes widen in sheer surprise, mouth going slack. He can only hope its reciprocated, but the silence goes for too long and Thor knows – right then – that he was the one that fell too hard and too deeply of the two.

Quickly, he grins, hoping he can hide the hurt, and begins moving around the room, collecting a clean, heading straight for the bedroom door to shower, saying, ‘look, sorry, have a good trip, be safe, yeah?’

‘Thor,’ calls out Loki, voice low and demanding and precise, but this time Thor ignores him, entering the bathroom without pause, turning on the shower, the sound of water drowning out anything else.

When he comes out, damp, clean and much more collected than before, Loki is nowhere to be found. Thor sighs – he never expected anything less.

-

lxxx.

‘My, are you even allowed in here?’

The dim lighting takes a moment to adjust to and Baldr spots the owner of the voice as an old man sitting at a table, sipping at some orange liquid in a glass. The men standing around – all broad shouldered with passive, stone faces, watch him as he is patted down before let in.

He is alone, without bodyguard or ally, and he soon wonders if that was a good move on his part.

‘My name is – ’

‘I know who you are, Baldr,’ says the old man, cleanly cutting through, though his voice remains warm and welcoming. ‘Come, take a seat.’

Baldr sits down, stiff, and watches as one man pours him a drink, pushing the glass over.

‘I’m sure if you can come in here, you can drink,’ says the old man. He takes a long draught before placing his glass noisily on the table and watching him through the gloom. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘I have a few questions that I heard you can answer,’ says Baldr, smiling, his face a perfect mask of courtesy.

‘And where did you hear such a baseless rumour?’ laughs the other, eyes glittering.

‘I’ve heard of a man named Ymir, who would give a person information if they needed it, sort of like a directory for the mob, ever since I was young. It was only when I asked about you from Hel, who works for my father, that I found this place.’ His voice is even and warm, never stuttering or stumbling. Baldr has always had such a talent for appearing at ease. He hopes it works on the old man.

‘Hel, is it? She’s a ruthless one, just like her mother.’ Ymir traces the rim of his glass before continuing, ‘then you should also know that I trade information, not give.’

Baldr nods. ‘Of course.’

‘Your questions?’

‘Who is behind the murders of the Vanaheim triumvirate?’

Ymir laughs, loud and disconcerting. ‘For that, you must tell me something of equal value.’

Baldr pauses, before, ‘that gun is my brother’s gun, no doubt. Stolen two days before the murders.’

‘You’re looking for a man,’ replies Ymir, smiling. Suddenly, Baldr understands the game.

‘The bluebloods will have a warrant for certain files in search of the gun’s history, but it will also be a check-up to see if there are any… financial discrepancies.’

‘This man does holds allegiance to no one but himself.’

‘They’re coming next week. On Wednesday.’

‘Alternatively, the man communicates with both Jotunheim and Asgard.’

‘After this scandal dies down,’ says Baldr, voice going low, ‘my father intends to retire and pass on Grimnir through joint ownership to both Tyr and I, until I’m thirty five and Tyr is absolved from his rights as co-CEO.’

Ymir’s smiles widely. He gestures towards one of the man standing stock-still beside him. The bodyguard brings him a pad or paper and pen. ‘I’ll give you half a name. I’m sure it will suit you well.’

Baldr takes the paper and nods, thanking him, before leaving the room with the muffled club music from behind the walls. He glances over at the bouncer, who stands stock still outside at the entrance, before nodding to him as well and climbing up the stairs on to the pavement, paper crushed in his fist, name immortalized in his mind.

When he’s at street level, he spots the long shadow of wheelchair cast over the sidewalk and Hel sitting under the streetlamp, her hulking brother Fenrir beside her. She looks at him.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asks, eyes glinting under the harsh light.

‘A last name. Probably not in the phonebook. I’ll have to keep looking,’ replies Baldr. He grins. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘Anything for you,’ smiles Hel, face gentle. ‘Will you tell your father once you do find this person? It would please him.’

Baldr chews on the inside of his cheek slowly before shaking his head. This is a test and he wants to pass with flying colours and no less. Never anything less. ‘But what would impress him? I’ll find this person and take care of him myself. Grimnir is a busy man.’

‘Of course. Goodnight, then.’ She gestures at Fenrir who begins to push her down the pavement, away from Baldr.

He watches her sink into the shadows and smoothes the crumpled paper, evening out the wrinkles. He can do this.

-

lxxxi.

‘He’s coming,’ says Hel over the phone.

‘Good. Keep a safehouse open for when I return,’ replies Loki, watching the scenery pass by as Jarnsaxa drives them out of the city. There’s a host of other cars as well, driving through the cover of night, out into the farm fields to reach the next town.

‘Pay my respects to Kvasir,’ says Hel, voice quiet and a touch mournful.

‘Of course.’ He hangs up, tucking away his phone and sighing. Jarnsaxa changes gears and begins to drive faster, but it is the last thing he wants. To get to Kvasir’s hometown – to see his casket and let the flowers rain down, see the box enter the fire at the funeral home and burned to a crisp. He swallows, stomach twisting. But, of course, she will be there, and he can’t miss this.

-

lxxxii.

Fandral’s apartment is a mess of a moment interrupted. Papers are scattered over the coffee table, the tv is still on though muted, a sweater strewn over the back of the cream-coloured couch, a cupboard drawer left hanging open in the kitchen, and the rumpled bedspread with pillows piled haphazardly. All the essential things are gone – shoes, jacket, keys, wallet, toothbrush, a few outfits missing from the closet and his backpack.

Hogun lists these things off, though he has cleaned a bit when Thor comes to visit after work on Thursday.

Yesterday, Loki had left and he hadn’t come back to the apartment since, though some of his clothes and toothbrush remain at Thor’s place, and it is quiet reassurance that Loki will return, despite Thor’s words. It feels pleasant, to have it out in the open. One good thing in a sea of worry.

Hogun coughs, ‘you seem distracted.’

‘It’s nothing,’ says Thor, ‘so, Fandral hasn’t come back? It’s been two days now.’

‘Yes. And his kitchen is atrocious for food,’ remarks Hogun wryly. ‘He’ll have to come back for clothes and stuff some day.’

‘You’re okay?’ asks the other, moving around to sit on the couch. Hogun has piled the papers under the coffee table and seems to have vacuumed the apartment. ‘You’ve certainly made your home here.’

‘The least I can do is keep it clean. His plants were all dead during the hospital stay so I threw them out.’ Thor watches the other man stand stock-still before him, glancing around the room with a vague, saddened look.

‘Thank you, Hogun. For doing this.’

Hogun shakes his head. ‘He’s my friend as well. I’ll do what I can.’

‘If you need anything at all, tell me. Tell one of us.’

‘I will.’ Slowly, Hogun’s expression changes to a smirk. ‘Now tell me what that is on your neck.’

Thor touches Loki’s bite mark gingerly with the tips of his fingers. It is sore and red, instantly recognizable as a painful hickey. ‘I have a boyfriend.’

‘Oh? Since when?’

‘A month and a bit. He’s… He’s the one who might know my dad, but he’s on a trip at the moment. He’ll be back next week to tell me apparently.’

Hogun hums. ‘And he’s a criminal.’

Thor starts. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘Your interest in the underworld obviously stems from his involvement with you,’ says the man easily. ‘It’s not hard to pick up.’

‘I wouldn’t know what he does,’ replies Thor, feeling alarm twist his stomach, but Hogun laughs.

‘I’m not going to chase him down and arrest him. He might simply have friends in low places and not do anything himself. Next time we see each other, I would like to meet him.’

‘Yeah,’ says Thor, who eases back in his seat, ‘yeah, that’d be great.

-

lxxxiii.

The procession begins on a humid, clouded day. The town is populated at thirteen thousand now, when Kvasir was born fourty some years ago, it was breaching a thousand, murmurs Laufey in his ear, her hand on his elbow as she guides him through the throngs of people that have gathered.

The casket is closed – it’s not easy disguising a throat slit open – and flowers are tucked around the edges. The sounds are muffled; talking is scarce and tears even rarer. This is a ceremony for a killer, thinks Loki, tears would be obscene. Criminals do not find redemption, says Laufey, but they find absolution in their sins – there is nothing better than self-acceptance, and Kvasir died with his.

Loki thinks his mother looks the most beautiful surrounded by death. Her back straight, her hair loose and pooling down her back, wearing a stark white pantsuit, mouth painted red, green eyes lined black. She is dry-eyed and cold-seeming – the Ice Queen of Jotunheim.

It is a farce that has been built by days of mourning beforehand. Loki knows she has had a fit in her home, fueled by anger and hatred and a fierce feeling of betrayal by the hand of her son. She told him as much over the phone when he organized the arrangements.

Yet, now, nothing seems to faze her. She drops idle remarks in his ear, walking smoothly through the mourners, comforting them when she recognizes them. Loki drifts from her side, feeling horribly distant from the event. It will hit him later, he knows, and he’ll be crippled by grief once more, but now, with a box that seems empty, gleaming under the funeral home’s light, he cannot muster the energy to grieve.

He spots her when she comes up to place a bouquet of poppies beside the casket, her hair as black as night falling straight down her back, dressed in a white summer dress despite the weather and sandals. Her face is just how he remembers her – almond eyes, high cheekbones, plush mouth and smooth skin – belying her true age.

She pulls away, turning around, and Loki catches her wrist in a loose grip, smiling when she jumps in surprise. Instantly, she snatches her hand back, frowning.

‘Idunn,’ he greets, gentle.

‘Loki,’ she replies, shoulders tense and expression wary.

‘Let’s talk outside, shall we?’ It is not an invitation, and Idunn follows him out of the funeral home. The smoking area is shadowed by an apple tree and Loki sits on the bench, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. She stands before him, eyeing him.

‘I’m out of the game,’ she says.

‘A certain someone wants you back in,’ he says. ‘Don’t need a name, I assume.’ Idunn bristles.

‘I live an honest life outside of that corrupt city,’ she snaps, ‘this is my chance to change.’

‘Looking for forgiveness, is it?’ drawls Loki, ‘you’re not going to find it in this shithole. Come back to the place you’ve always known. How does it go – familiarity breeds trust. And we trust you.’

‘So?’ challenges the woman, her thin neck straight and stern. She is stubborn. Loki can admire that.

‘We’ll protect you. One last job. I can promise that, apparently.’

‘He’s retiring after this, then?’ she asks. ‘Who takes his place?’

Loki props his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, watching her through the haze of smoke he exhales. ‘Hm. I wonder.’

Idunn shifts her feet, before her eyes widen in realization. ‘You play a dangerous game.’

‘Come back with me,’ says Loki, ‘overthrow his highness and let me grant you every freedom your conscious could never grant you. Haunted by the second-hand guilt of men and women who escape the law unscathed, I can see it in you. But I also know you’re good at your job because you enjoy it – because there is a rush in beating the system, in making a name for yourself, in claiming power.’

‘Ruthless man,’ she bites out, face twisted in anger, ‘the bluebloods will see his records and wipe him out. Why don’t you let them?’

‘Because I want what the bluebloods will destroy. Save Asgard. Save it for us, Idunn.’

‘I am under the custody and surveillance of Jotunheim. I cannot escape when your mother mobilizes.’

Loki feels surprise fill him. He hadn’t heard that rumour, nor had Jarnsaxa nor Thrym nor any one else who reported to him. ‘She mobilizes,’ he echoes flatly. He stands up, crushing his cigarette under his heel onto the pavement. ‘She means to crush what I want for her own power thrill.’ His jaw tightens. Anger thrums under his skin. Payment for Kvasir, was it?

‘You fight a losing war,’ says Idunn, and he sees the pity written on her face.

‘You have no idea what I have started,’ he snaps at her, ‘I will win and I will take what I deserve.’

‘I will be forced to do what Jotunheim does, and so far, in the placated silence, I thought I could be forgiven through time. But, now, you come here and you ruin it all. Leave and lay off for Kvasir will not be the only loved one who is harmed.’

‘I answer not to you, Idunn,’ he snarls, ‘you will come with me back to the All-Father. I wanted to do this gently, but I will use force.’

‘If you touch me, Loki, I swear to you, I will ruin you,’ says Idunn, fierce, ‘do not underestimate me because I have no gun or physical skill. I have a mind and I can use it unlike some of us here.’

‘And that is precisely why I need you,’ Loki says, irritated. ‘Your morals seem awfully convenient to drop when it has to do with harm to your person.’

She flushes, glaring. The silence hangs between them before, finally, to Loki’s relief, Iddun says, ‘I’ll come with you. To save you, and the rest from this hell that you’ve created.’

‘I will protect you,’ he tells her.

‘Keep your promises to yourself,’ she snarls, before turning away and leaving him alone. He stands there, watching the sky with the heavy, grey clouds pressing in, the cool breeze easing the humidity of the air, and there’s Laufey turning around the corner, her gaze cold and glittering.

‘It’s time for the cremation.’

‘I’ll be leaving after this,’ he says, watching her steadily. Daring her to say Idunn. He wonders how she deals with his betrayals, piling on top of each other like an unsteady stack, ready to tip, crash, expose all the sick, twisted parts of him to pick at like a carrion bird.

Instead, Laufey settles with a twist of her mouth. ‘Fine.’

-

lxxxiv.

Friday passes with work, and Saturday comes slow. Thor spends the day doing miscellaneous chores around the apartment and idly watches the news. The investigation continues: Hod is released as a suspect – given an alibi that he was at a club the night of the murder. Grimnir promises to work along the police for anything else, and the same brown-haired reporter – Darcy – claims that soon financial records for the company would be examined by the following week to truly lay off the company and the CEO from the investigation.

Thor cooks and eats and contemplates calling Loki, but of course, he never does. It’s a job for someone else, he suspects. Loki never leaves Thor if it’s something he’s doing for himself. It would do no good to compromise the other by calling him.

The weekend eases in and out of Thor’s life and it is Monday again, work in the humid morning. The city sky is covered in clouds coming from the east, promising a thunderstorm. The clouds have been hanging around for days but now they huddle together. It feels like an omen.

The storm begins just when work finishes. The visibility is ridiculously poor so Thor drives slowly through the heavy drum of the raindrops, and it eases a bit by the time he hits the shield of the high-rise buildings in downtown. His phone rings between the din, and he answers quickly.

‘Yeah?’

‘Thor,’ says Loki, voice deep and vacant, as if exhausted, and Thor feels a rush of relief spread through him.

‘Loki,’ he says, warm and happy, ‘you’re back.’

‘Yes,’ and there’s a rush of static, like a sigh, before Loki clears his throat, ‘meet me at that bar you always go to?’

‘Yeah, of course, driving is slow, so give me some time.’

‘Yes, till then.’ And Loki hangs up. Thor feels a lightness in his chest, and anticipation. There would be answers in this meeting. There would be a chance to understand his own identity and himself along with Loki. There would be a chance that maybe – just maybe – Loki would reciprocate how Thor felt, though, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t quite know what that entailed.

And Thor drove on, through the rain.

-

lxxxv.

‘He frequents a bar. Right on the west side of downtown. It’s clean and nice and has parking half a block over, so one has to walk around the block to the front to get to the entrance.’

‘Brother…’

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be over soon.’

-

lxxxvi.

He parks in the back of the parking lot, pulling the flannel button up over his head to shield himself from the rain. Thor walks down the slick pavement, glancing out at the traffic that has eased up, cars zooming down the road, sometimes splashing errant pedestrians. Thor feels good in this type of weather – cool and refreshed, and he walks faster to get to the bar. There is someone waiting for him.

-

lxxxvii.

Loki feels awful, like a drowned cat, as he stomps his way to the bar. At least it’ll be warm, he imagines, and there will be food and drink and no snarling Idunn and the glaring All-Father which he must negotiate between. Never has he seen two opposed, stubborn forces like the two – and he feels relief for this break and, finally, finally, he can see Thor, and talk with him. Tell him everything because it’s finally time.

He reaches the entrance, before looking down the pavement and seeing Thor, his red flannel shirt pulled over top of his head, and he snorts, because the hulking man looks ridiculous. Behind him, on the road, he sees cars race by, and then a motorcycle, increasing speed and –

It happens very quickly.

There are two men on the motorcycle – black leather, helmets with the visors pulled down over their faces. They ride down the street, approaching Loki, until he sees it. It’s the one riding as a passenger who moves – pulling out a gun, cocking, aiming, and –

Loki turns, voice in his throat, and he sees Thor. The man is smiling, waving, his mouth forming a word, perhaps a name –

– before Thor crumples to the ground.

Hazily, Loki remarks that Thor’s blood is so very red.

-

Chapter Text

-

lxxxviii.

The pain hits him – shatters his leg and spirals up his spine, making him dizzy and bile rise up his throat. There’s yelling, screaming – his scream of sheer agony – and Loki’s face, over head of him, tears spilling over his cheeks, hot and wet –

Everything is disjointed – the ambulance comes and he is drugged and transported to the hospital – there are fuzzy images of white-clothed men and women and a red sign that says EMERGENCY as bright as blood –

White gloves and white masks and metal gleaming in the light, with the rhythmic beeping of the cardiograph lulling him into sleep as they inject anesthetic in his veins before commencing the operation.

Thor sleeps for a long time after that.

-

lxxxix.

He wakes for short spurts – everything hazy and quiet, like his head has been stuffed with cotton.

The first time there is Sif and Volstagg, their faces screwed up in worry and anguish, and vaguely, his arm is being squeezed in concern.

The second time there are nurses, a doctor speaking over him in hushed murmurs that do not reach his ears – sounds muffled and faint.

The third time there is Loki at his side, his hair a mess, tear tracks down his face, expression painted in agony and concern, and his lips mouthing something, perhaps a name, perhaps words – remember you told him you loved him and he has to reply still – still –

It’s the fourth time he wakes that he has some faculties to speak of. Thor struggles to prop himself on his elbow, seeing his leg elevated and bandaged tightly around the kneecap. He is covered in blankets and there are various wires stringing him up to the many machines around him – blood, cardiograph, and glucose being the ones he can identify.

Next, he feels the warmth and sees the pile of dark hair at his elbow, where Loki sleeps beside him, cushioning himself with his arms, fingers curled loosely around Thor’s hospital gown. He tries speaking but his mouth is dry and he looks for water. A plastic cup is at the bedside table. He reaches – feeling sore and exhausted – hand trembling, as he grasps the cup and drains it.

With a sigh, Thor drops it back on the table, and curls his fingers in Loki’s hair, where it is warm and good. Slowly, the smaller man eases from his sleep, lifting his head, eyes rimmed red and mouth twisted in a frown. When he sees Thor, relief floods into Loki’s shoulders and he surges forward, kissing Thor.

Thor makes a muffled sound of surprise, hand coming up to cradle the man’s skull, as he responds, nipping at Loki’s mouth, feeling him open up immediately. In return, he feels Loki tongue coming in to lick open Thor’s mouth eagerly, tracing each ridge of his teeth. Somewhere, Loki whines, biting Thor’s tongue, lapping at the small cut with blooms blood and drinking it in, before pulling it away, panting, mouth swollen and wet.

‘You’re okay,’ he sighs out, and Thor grins, nodding.

‘Took me by surprise. Never been shot before,’ he says, glancing over his leg. ‘Guy’s got shit aim.’

‘Don’t say that,’ snaps Loki, voice hoarse, and Thor turns in surprise at the outburst. Loki holds his gaze steadily, jaw tight, before he continues, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Bit late,’ comments the other, tracing the long line of Loki’s neck with his fingers. His ward is empty, and there’s a window to his left, the clouds clearing up and slices of blue sky coming into view. It feels peaceful in this place, much to Thor’s surprise.

‘Thor,’ breathes Loki, leaning into the touch like a cat, arched and lashes fluttering, ‘I love you.’

His touch stutters, skating upwards, cupping Loki’s cheek and he gives a laugh. ‘Okay. I’m glad.’ He feels tired and he wants to sleep but Loki is here with him, and he can’t tear his eyes off of him. It’s so different, seeing Loki mussed and emotionally vulnerable, exposed for Thor’s eyes and his only, and he wants to bathe in it.

‘I promised you that I would tell you everything when I saw you again,’ says Loki, humming under Thor’s touch as Thor traces patterns on his skull and the back of his neck.

‘Yeah,’ says Thor because he’s not quite sure what to say.

‘You’re going to hate me,’ replies the other, voice holding so much conviction it jars Thor.

‘Will I? Why don’t I decide that?’

Loki reaches forward again, arms curling around Thor’s shoulders and his face tucked in the crook of the blonde man’s neck. Thor lets him, of course, wrapping his own arm around Loki’s shoulders, bracing the smaller man against him.

‘Grimnir has two sons – Hod and Baldr, twins from a woman named Frigga,’ begins Loki, voice low and slow, ‘Jarnsaxa, with Kvasir, stole Hod’s gun and planted it in the warehouse the night of Kvasir’s death. The bluebloods took Hod as a suspect and Grimnir was exposed to the lime light.

‘With the bluebloods clamouring for Grimnir’s financial records, I was sent to hunt down Idunn, a lady with an unholy talent in legal documentation and court who worked with mob clientele. Of course, then Grimnir sent his competent son Baldr on a small errand – find an alibi for his brother on the night of the killing.

‘He uses Nidavellier’s resources – a small front company originally governed under Jormungandr, Hel’s brother – he’s in prison under Odin’s supervision. Hel met with Baldr, told him he could find the man behind the entire mess if he went to Ymir. I anticipated that once I returned, Baldr would come after me as Ymir told him to…’

Loki takes a breath, swallowing, as Thor traces idle patters on the man’s back, feeling the soft fabric of the other’s green turtleneck. It is a wonder Loki can wear heavy clothes in this humidity, thinks Thor vaguely. He hums for Loki to continue.

‘The one who shot was Baldr, probably had Hod driving the bike, or some other henchman.’

Thor pauses. ‘So Ymir told him my name instead of yours?’

Loki’s fingers curl tightly into the blonde man’s hospital gown, nails digging into the skin underneath. ‘I do not know what name Ymir gave Baldr, only suspicions.’ He pulls back away and settles back into his seat, face turning towards the window at the far wall instead of looking at Thor, hands splayed loosely in his lap as he speaks. ‘Grimnir is eighty some years old. He’s fucked a lot of women in his life, most of them under the pseudonym ‘Odin’.’

It takes a moment to process – that he has seen his father on television, that he is the son of the All-Father, that this was the reason his mother never told him anything. He feels surprised, watching Loki to find the hint of lie, maybe a quirk of lips to signal a joke. He finds nothing but a serene, collected expression, focused on the slice of sun that filters down from the windowsill to the white floor.

‘You’re not joking. At all. Odinson. I was shot by my half-brother. Maybe both of them.’ His voice is flat. Thor runs a hand through his hair, laughing quietly. ‘Well, fuck.’ He rubs his eyes, feeling horribly awake yet exhausted at the same time. ‘Anything else?’

Loki closes his eyes, back straight in the seat as he tilts his head back in exhaustion. He licks his mouth, before smirking, opening his eyes to pierce Thor with a steady, poison green gaze that glittered coldly under the light. ‘I’m going to kill Baldr for doing this to you.’

Thor starts in surprise. ‘Loki, I’m still alive, why don’t we just report him? Let the police handle this.’

The smirk drops into grave expression. ‘You are mine, Thor, in every way, and he hurt you,’ says Loki, ‘do you not understand?’

‘Loki,’ says Thor, desperate, but he knows the man is stubborn to a fault. It would explain the giant mess they were in. ‘This happened to me, you don’t have to get involved.’

The said man frowns and sweeps out of the room, leaving Thor’s cardiograph to spike, alerting the staff as he struggles to think of any way to stop this. He knows Loki will not return until Baldr is a dead body on the ground and Thor is ‘avenged’, or some illusion thereof, because Loki isn’t sane, in any way, and he feels terribly helpless.

-

xc.

‘He’s taking an awful long fucking time getting some goddamn jeans,’ remarks Freya, flipping a butterfly knife between her fingers as she lounges in the passenger seat of the car. Freyr shrugs.

‘Leave the kid alone. He’s scared witless. Just be thankful he put up enough of a front to convince the rest of Vanaheim that we’re the rightful heirs.’

‘Of course we’re the fucking rightful heirs,’ she snaps at him. He can see the worry shaping in the lines between her eyebrows as the knife spins faster and faster between her hands.

‘Fandral will be right down from his apartment. We should hire movers to get all his stuff, shouldn’t we?’ he mentions, tracing the ridges of the steering wheel, feeling worry crease his stomach. It was one of the few moments he had been out of one of their sights. Would Fandral call the cops? Turn himself in? The kid had these things called morals – which distressed his sister to a fault.

‘Fuck this. Call him. No. I’ll go up myself.’ Freya tosses the knife into the air and catches it, handle first, before snapping her seatbelt off and moving to get out.

‘No need,’ sighs out Freyr, relief flooding him, as Fandral comes into view, gym bag slung over his shoulders. He hurriedly gets into the backseat and Freya scowls at him.

‘What took so long?’

‘Got caught up with my landlord, wanted to know if I was taking a vacation, summer and all, and the rent, you know,’ says the man, shoving the bag to his feet. His words cut off when he looks up and gives a half-smile to Freya. ‘What?’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ she says flatly, then turns back in her seat with a huff and signals for her brother to drive. Freyr is silent and obedient, but he makes a mental note to copy Fandral’s key and check out the apartment himself.

-

xci.

It takes a day for Hel to kidnap Baldr, and half a day to transport him and then tie him up to a wooden chair – rope chafing against ankles and wrists and torso. There’s a gag stuffed in the scowling mouth and all of the blonde hair is messed and dirty with dust.

They’re in a barnhouse that belonged to Angrboda, half caved in from some old fire. Half the roof has collapsed and sunlight streams through the crooked slats, leaving squares of light to fall over them both – warm and good. The floor in the middle has been swept of the remnants of hay, and Loki spots a yawning cat lounging on the long wooden board of a stall that might have been for a horse.

Loki straddles another wooden chair in front of his captive, his chin and elbows propped on the back as he watches with a faint smile. He can see the resemblance in Baldr and Thor – broad shoulders and wide hands – and, perhaps, in another life, Loki would have fucked Baldr instead.

No, if Thor and Baldr were placed beside each other, he would choose Thor each time. Thor was molten-gold, Baldr a cheap, plastic imitation. And what was Loki? Silver and sleek and perfect against Thor, of course, too expensive for a man-child to have. His excitement was making him whimsical, he notes vaguely.

Mouth twitching, Loki gently lays his gloved fingers against Baldr’s cheek, watching the other freeze and growl low from his throat.

‘Now, Baldr, don’t be like that,’ coos Loki, ‘Nidavellier was never yours. Of course the men were going to turn against you when Jormungandr came back. It’s fate, is all.’

Baldr lurches away from the touch and struggles in his bonds valiantly. ‘You know why you’re here, aren’t you?’ asks Loki as he reaches over around Baldr’s head and unties the gag, letting it drop on the dusty floor of the barn.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Baldr snaps, glaring obstinately at Loki. Loki smiles, warmly, ruffling his blonde hair. The other immediately jerks back, wary. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Petting you. We’re in a barn. You’re my prize. Now, you might just get fed if you answer me.’ Loki’s smile turns cruel. Baldr clenches his teeth.

‘I’m your hostage – son of Grimnirson. You want money.’

Loki frowns, and slides out a blade from his leather jacket’s sleeve. Back to his old clothes now – jeans, leather jacket, leather gloves – moving around is easier. Killing would be easier. However, first, Baldr had to understand. Loki clutches Baldr’s neck, holding him steadfast, as he slides his knife to the vein pulsing underneath his jaw. He presses. A small cut blooms.

‘No, no, that’s not it at all,’ scolds Loki. ‘No. Baldr. You’re here because you shot someone very close to me. Very close.’

‘Thor?’ snarls Baldr through his clenched teeth. There is a pause where Loki tilts his head, sliding his blade in increments, watching more blood drape the edge of the metal. He lets it come to his hostage slowly but surely. Finally: ‘Oh. Oh fuck,’ says Baldr, voice suddenly faint. ‘You – you’re Laufeyson.’

Nothing like falling into Jotunheim hands, muses Loki, or, rather, into a dangerous killer’s young protégé. The All-Father, he is sure, was very much aware of Loki’s upbringing, and if Baldr had been deemed the competent son, than he must have had a wonderful education in all the colourful characters in the business.

‘Just so, Baldr,’ and Loki, wanting to laugh as he savours the fear that ripples down his hostage’s back, sweat breaking out over the boy-man’s skin. He’s so young, thinks Loki. Oh well. ‘Now, I won’t kill you yet, but I will certainly make you wish I had. Are we ready to continue?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His blade turns delightfully red. The barn echoes with a scream.

-

xcii.

Sif sits stiffly in her seat beside Thor, ‘this was all paid for before we got here, y’know.’ She stares adamantly at the wall. ‘I told them I was your sister. Blonde and all. Showed me the bills. You know what name was on there?’

Thor watches her, half in anticipation and half in joy for having a friend by his side. ‘Sif,’ he starts, but she shoots him a glare.

‘No,’ she snaps. ‘I can’t believe you lied to us. God. Thor, we’re your best fucking friends. We’d die for you.’

Thor is confused – the name, he expects, should be ‘Loki Laufeyson’, and he doesn’t know which lie he’s been caught in. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs helplessly, hands flopping uselessly in his lap instead of reaching out to her. She’s come alone, Volstagg at work, Hogun at the apartment, Fandral with the twins.

‘You fucking idiot,’ she sighs. ‘Absolutely. No other explanation. You idiot.’

‘I am so sorry, Sif,’ repeats Thor, but his tone catches her attention and she groans.

‘Oh my god, you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’

Thor half-smiles, looking more pained than anything. ‘No fucking clue.’

Sif arches her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Your bills were paid under ‘Jotunheim’, Thor.’

‘Oh.’ He lets the syllable hang in the air for a moment, smile turning strained. ‘That would be my boyfriend. He has… contacts.’

‘The dark-haired guy, right?’ says Sif, ‘what’s his name?’

‘Loki.’

‘Loki,’ repeats the woman. She traces her gaze over Thor. ‘You’re part of his gang, aren’t you?’ Her mouth twists. ‘Fuck.’

‘Sif,’ he implores, soft, ‘I’m not part of that. That’s Loki’s domain. I – I’m not involved.’

‘Then why are you lying here, bullet-ridden, Thor?’ asks Sif, voice even and dangerously low. ‘You know I’m going to tell Volstagg and Hogun. And Fandral too. When we get him out. And then we get you out next.’

Thor collapses against his pillow, feeling exhausted. ‘I know. I didn’t want you guys to know. I thought… I thought I’d be gone from this. But – then – Loki happened.’

‘I’m going now,’ announces Sif suddenly, standing up and taking her purse. ‘I’ll… I’ll be back when I’m… when I’m in a better – oh, I don’t know, frame of mind, okay? I just. I need time. The others will too.’

‘I love you,’ says Thor quietly, staring at his elevated leg, and Sif sighs, lying a hand on his shoulder briefly.

‘I know. I love you too. And we all do. But, just – ’ she cuts off. ‘I’m going.’ And she does.

-

xciii.

Freyr feels the outline of Fandral’s apartment key in his pocket and props his chin on the top of the steering wheel. He remembers thinking – only hours ago when he had driven up to the apartment with his sister and Fandral to pick up the man’s shaving kit and Freya snorting, ‘and what – next week he’s going to get the fucking cutlery?’ – that he would just have a check. Nothing more. For security purposes and whatnot – completely forgivable and unnoticeable. There is a pause in his thoughts and Freyr can’t help snorting – here he was debating whether to invade someone’s privacy when he had killed his own mother weeks ago.

Fandral had, of course, over the past week become more jumpy and terrified of them, but he’d always hold himself up well in front of the others of Vanaheim – achieving something like silent and stoic instead of meek and frightened. No matter the acting – Freya and him could tell. There was something different about Fandral.

For Freyr, the answer lies in Fandral’s apartment. He parks around the corner, enters the building and rides the elevator up wards. The corridors are an inconspicuous beige colour, and the doors white with gold number plates stamped on. He slides the key into the lock smoothly and turns, hearing the click, before pushing the door open and stepping inside Fandral’s apartment.

The first thing he notices is that it’s clean. Tidied up, with the only disarray being the crookedly lined shoes on the entrance mat. Freyr closes the door and stands still. A moment – he hears a door closing, muffled footsteps, a voice calling out, ‘Fandral? Back already?’ before a figure steps out around the corner into the living room – black t-shirt, jeans, and a complete stranger.

‘Hello,’ greets Freyr with a smile, and feels the warm metal of a gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans. ‘I’m Fandral’s friend. My name is Freyr, just need to pick up some things from his closet that he forgot. And you are?’

The stranger shifts on the pads of his feet, evidently uncomfortable, ‘I’m Hogun, another friend. I’ll let myself out while you do what you need to do.’ He quirks a half-smile, before walking past Freyr altogether and opening the door. Freyr watches the other cross down the corridor stiffly, before closing the door and licking his mouth.

A cop in Fandral’s house – from the stance, from the wariness, from the way he was never flat on his feet, from the readiness of his arm arched towards a holster that wasn’t there. He pulls out his phone and calls Loki.

-

xciv.

Hod is in a car with two men and one woman, driving out of the city and it just occurs to him, vaguely, that this might not be a good idea, as he drinks from a bottle of water they have given him for the ride.

But, he remembers, his brother has been missing for two days, his father is on a manhunt and this woman – cool and sharp-eyed told him that she might know where Baldr was being held up. Did he want to go with them to check or report directly to the All-Father?

Hod is not brave, nor is he cunning like his brother, but he loves Baldr and it is no surprise that he leaps at the chance to see him and save him.

The barn is not a familiar sight in the low, blazing sun where the air is coated in orange and red. The big man pushes the woman’s wheelchair over the gravel road and the lanky man follows behind Hod, looking immensely bored as he scouts the long prairie grass surrounding them. It’s empty and silent.

Hod stumbles behind Hel – the woman – and enters the long shadow cast by the half-crushed barn before finally going inside and recoiling at the sight.

There’s a tall, lean man with a gun to another’s head and Baldr tied to a chair, his head tilted back, throat slit open, blood turning brown over his chest, amongst the myriad of other cuts he can see on other patches of skin. Hod feels bile rise in his throat, eyes frantically scanning the rest of the scene and spotting the blood-stained blade on the ground beside the man on his knees being held at gunpoint.

‘Loki, you’re here,’ says Hel quietly, and Hod sees the man holding the gun look over, a severe expression on his face.

‘Came ahead of you. Found this sick fuck killing Baldr.’

Hod makes a sound – like wretching – and curls up, feeling like he’s going to die. Baldr isn’t dead, no, no, no, Baldr is not dead, he wants to scream, but now he’s busy puking on the ground, by a pile of hay, his face bathed in sweat.

‘You’re his brother?’ asks the man named Loki as Hod wipes his mouth. ‘You want to kill him?’

The offer makes his head jerk up in surprise, and there it is – the spark of anger, of vengeance, spilling into his blood. His brother was dead. Tortured and now dead. And this man, on his knees, staring into the barrel of a gun, his eyes wide, blood on his face, on his hand, on his clothes –

‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ His voice is strained but coherent.

Hod steps right behind Loki, takes the gun from the long, white fingers, and holds it in his hand, steady as can be. The man – dark-haired, with dark eyes and pale skin – is terrified, his knees slipping minutely on the too-smooth ground but Hod doesn’t care, doesn’t, doesn’t – doesn’t –

He shoots and the man crumples backwards with a sickening crack, blood and brains littering the barn. Hod collapses to his knees – bile rising again – and he heaves though nothing comes out, and just – oh, he feels so tired, so tired, oh –

-

xcv.

The days pass. He phones in his absence at work, receives pay anyway for his leave from his boss, thankfully. Thor isn’t stupid enough to forget that he has a loan on Asgard, and now his hospital fees on Jotunheim.

No police come to investigate his injuries. He wonders why. There is no TV in the room. He asks for a newspaper, yet never seems to receive one. He is cut off from the world in his ward. The silence is eerie.

So he sits, reads, and thinks. His mother had passed away quietly in a crowded ward in a hospital, Thor recalls, and he felt uncomfortable in a place such as this. He is eager to escape this place and inquires daily as to how long he can leave.

Volstagg arrives once, along with Sif. He looks exhausted with worry but embraces Thor all the same, and Thor finds comfort in the warmth of a friend. Sif, in turn, smiles and shoves a basket full of books and fast food, still warm.

‘Food’s probably awful. Volstagg’s idea,’ she says, and Thor loves them all the more. They forgive him, quietly, and speak of other things, wonder about Hogun and worry for Fandral. Thor savours it while he can.

-

xcvi.

Three days since his last visit, Loki sweeps into the room with little fanfare, his face content, and Thor is already reaching out, fingers curling into Loki’s leather sleeve, pulling him in. The smaller man leans down and kisses him, mouth warm and desperate as he dives into Thor’s mouth, savouring the closeness. Thor can feel him shiver and moan, reminiscent of the first time they kissed all those days ago in front of Laufey’s house where Loki simply took and took.

Thor lets him, responding eagerly, feeling the sharp points of Loki’s teeth, the slick wetness of the other’s tongue, tasting the remnants of something like coffee – a moan coming up his throat and slipping into Loki’s mouth.

Finally, Loki pulls away, lips wet and red, stripping the leather gloves off and pocketing them, his warm hands sliding around Thor’s neck, resting lightly as if simply aching for touch, as he seats himself in the chair beside him.

‘Baldr’s dead,’ hums Loki, with a half-smile, seemingly ignoring the way Thor freezes, ‘and Hod is going to jail for shooting a man in the face. Niflheim has officially submit to me, with Nidavellier in tow, Vanaheim and Jotunheim are under my directions, Alfheim and the rest will come around, so Svartalfheim is the only one left.’

‘Did you do all this?’ asks Thor faintly, feeling his gut grow cold. Loki looks at him, as if just realizing he is there.

‘It was fate, Thor,’ says the other, ‘The pieces fell so wonderfully together, I could not have timed anything better. And it was you who started it all, Thor. You.’ His expression has grown fierce, ‘I love you, Thor.’

Thor doesn’t know what to make of this answer, so he sits back and lets Loki’s voice melt into a hum, a low melody curling into the air, senseless and whimsical. They sit together for a time, Thor clenching his jaw as he tries to piece these last few sentences together, and Loki’s head pillowed on Thor’s stomach, like a feline with a sated bloodlust.

After a while, Thor speaks up, ‘and what will you do with Svartalfheim?’

Loki does not move – only his voice. ‘Those who do not submit pay the price, Thor, as you should well know.’

-

xcvii.

Fandral is handcuffed and seated in the backseat of their car while Freyr drives through the darkened alleyways and Freya turns up the volume of her music obscenely high. She’s excited, her thin fingers a beautiful juxtaposition against the semi-automatic machine gun covering her lap. He glances back at Fandral – gagged too, just in case – and the blue eyes are wide and frantic, blonde hair mussed.

They pull up in front of the low-lit street, the train tracks obscenely close to the lit up apartment complex with its dainty white curtains in the window. There are three other cars with them, all ready to pull out and drive away once the deed is done.

It’s an honest surprise that Freya’s loud music doesn’t alert someone of their presence, but Freyr can’t be bothered to turn it off as he looks at his watch.

Three, two, one…

The train comes screaming around the corner, right beside the apartment complex, just as scheduled and Freya moves.

The four cars with their doors open – Freya’s red hair in the light, her boot kicking down the front door after she’s gunned down the door knob. Screams, gun shots, flashes of light, a curtain perfectly brushed with red – it is a montage of killing inside, Freyr imagines.

There is laughter somewhere in that din – the train screeching along, the machine gun fire, the bodies thumping to the ground, the guitar riffs blaring from the car – and Freyr can hear it, faintly, somewhere, his sister-lover’s joy in the carnage.

It takes three minutes, and everyone returns unscathed but for blood splatters, smelling of smoke, and the cars drive away while the end of the train comes into view, ending the cover of noise and letting them leave.

-

xcviii.

Loki knows Thor is having some sort of morality crisis – the way his voice comes out stiff, his body tense, the line of his jaw tight – so he decides to distract him, thankful that he has shut the door to the ward with a warning and locked it in case this were to happen. Thor – always so concerned with being righteous.

He snakes a hand under the cotton sheet, glad the annoying cardiograph has disappeared, and finds Thor’s cock, wrapping his fingers around the flaccid length before pulling at it, making the blonde man jerk up in surprise.

‘Loki, this is – ’ starts Thor, but Loki has moved the gown and sheet aside entirely, exposing the skin to the air.

‘A private ward,’ says Loki smoothly, standing up and placing his knees on either side of Thor’s legs, his back arched as he breathes over the cock, now half-hard in his hand. He makes a scene of it; one that he knows will erase any errant thoughts about ethics spinning in Thor’s head.

Loki licks at the tip, kissing the head wetly, before sucking down, and hearing Thor curse. He stretches his lips over the cock, tasting the bead of precome that wells up, and presses his tongue against a thick vein on the underside of the length.

‘Fuck, fuck,’ groans Thor, fingers fisted in the sheets, and Loki sees the clench of muscles in the man’s abdomen, making sure he doesn’t buck into the hot mouth. Loki slides a hand around to the base of the cock, holding it still so he can swallow another inch down, feeling it press in his mouth – thick and heavy and Thor.

He sucks, gently, tonguing the slit to drink down the precome, and bobs his head slowly, drawing out the experience, his breaths coming evenly through his nose. Thor has his head tilted back, exposing his throat, and Loki wants to reach up there and sink his teeth, but he busies himself with laving the cock with his tongue.

‘God, Loki, more,’ pants Thor from above, a hand slung over his eyes, and Loki pulls off with a wet sound, stroking him roughly with his hand as he coats a finger with his saliva. The sound Thor makes when Loki slides it into him makes the smaller man want to fuck right into Thor – brutal and raw and hard, ram into him until Thor comes while riding his cock.

He has better self-control, of course, so he leans his head back down, swallowing down the cock until it threatens to gag him and deepthroats him still, working Thor open as he sucks. Thor is panting, blabbering mess – ‘oh god - missed this, missed you’ – and Loki hums in reciprocation, rubbing Thor’s perineum as he fucks his finger into the man.

The hot thickness of Thor’s cock is overwhelming, and Loki presses his own hard cock against Thor’s uninjured leg, rutting as he bobs his head, rolling his hips to get friction, and Thor lifts his leg to press even further against the heat.

‘Yeah, yeah, c’mon, Loki,’ says Thor in a breath, feeling the other buck quickly against his leg as Loki slides his mouth back to just the sensitive cockhead, his tongue back on teasing the ridge until Thor hisses. He feels the tremble of orgasm slide into Thor’s thighs and prepares himself, giving a harsh suck once, twice, and once more as he presses his finger in deep – before Thor helplessly comes, hips shoving upwards.

Loki swallows, drinking it in and sucking at the head until Thor is hissing at the oversensitivity. He bats at Loki’s head, pushing him away, until finally, his wet, softening length is lying on his thigh. Loki bucks gently against Thor’s leg, still hard, as he tilts his head back but Thor is moving, a hand on Loki’s arm, pulling him forward and up until the smaller man is straddling his chest.

Making quick work of the buttons, Thor draws Loki’s cock out and sucks it, gently and slow, stroking him, but Loki is so far gone that the stimulation is enough to have him tangle his fingers in the blonde hair and fuck once – deep – into the man’s mouth and come.

Thor swallows in turn, and licks at the cockhead, catching any remnant drops of come, before slipping him back into Loki’s jeans and buttoning them up. Loki gets off the bed, feeling sated and drowsy, and he kisses Thor slowly, tasting his come in quick swipes of his tongue and letting the other do the same. It feels intimate in some perfectly filthy way, the way that Loki likes best.

He sits back onto the chair, laying his head against Thor’s shoulder, ‘you’ll be in physical therapy for a time, and when you come out, this war – everything – it will be over, and I will be crowned.’

‘I want to go with you,’ says Thor, his voice soft but pleading. ‘I just – I hate being stuck here. I want to go with you. Let me leave. Let me leave and pay for all of this.’

The smaller man looks up, cocking his head in confusion, ‘Thor, the money doesn’t matter. I will always have money. You understand how the underworld works, you’re not stupid.’

‘You have loan sharks and guns,’ replies Thor flatly.

Loki quirks a smile. ‘That and other things too. We all specialize, you see. Vanaheim runs guns and other weapons. Asgard provides drugs – from trafficking to distribution. So, we have guns and we have drugs and what’s left to satisfy a man’s needs?’

He watches Thor put two and two together, mouth twisting, ‘sex.’

‘Very good,’ grins Loki, ‘Jotunheim specializes in sex. That’s why I could snatch up a house so quickly for my Vanir twins and no one noticed. Because it’s always been that way.’

‘And you’re going to take Jotunheim and Asgard and then crush Vanaheim too?’ asks Thor, eyeing him with something like apprehension.

‘No, Vanaheim will submit, as it always does,’ he replies airily, ‘I am the rightful heir to Jotunheim, and now I have a grasp on Odin. It is time I ended this. His sons are gone, the bluebloods have resumed clamoring at his door – his door, not Asgard’s – due to Hod, and his smaller gangs have sworn allegiance to me.’

‘Are you going to kill him?’ Loki watches Thor, searching for something that like paternal affection, or need to protect, but finds curiosity and unease instead.

‘No.’ Loki feels surprised at his response, but he knows it is the right one. ‘No. My mother watched Jotunheim fall all those years ago. Why should I take such an experience away from him?’

-

xcix.

Thor is passed from his ward into physical therapy with surprising speed. After a week of bed rest, he begins to practice a stumbling walk for minutes at a time, attempting to exercise, and getting his muscles back. The doctors reassure him of a full recovery, of which Thor is endlessly thankful for, and is eager to leave the hospital as soon as he can.

That’s when he gets a newspaper – ‘Honoured Cop Killed in the Line of Duty’ and breaks down crying. It was the twins, he’s sure. They must have found him, shot him. Hogun dead, Fandral out of reach, Sif and Volstagg in mourning, and him stuck – unable to do anything. His phone is dead, no charger on hand, and Loki does not come for him in those days.

He receives newspapers daily now – over the second week. No glimpse of his friends, no peep from Loki or anyone else. Only headlines and articles – Hod is found at the sight, pressured with enough circumstantial evidence that he lands in jail. While the bluebloods cannot find any link in the financial records of Grimnir, fielded by the new head accounted, Idunn, the suspicion remains. It will ebb away, Thor knows, like everything else does.

He works his body further, harder, wanting to get out, after he reads through the newspapers each day. The stubbornness won’t leave him – the driving need to get better faster and leave – and he feels almost embarrassed when he tires out, yet the hospital staff reassure him, every day, that is normal, that is expected.

Thor wants to break something, but he perseveres and waits it out because it is the only thing he can do. And if he cries in frustration at his own inadequacy and Hogun’s passing, well, that is simply his own business. The days pass. The world moves. Thor’s leg gets better.

-

c.

Ten days since Loki’s visit, he gets another visitor. It was not Sif, nor Volstagg, nor Loki. Just a man with a cane, white hair and implacable smile.

‘Ymir,’ greets Thor with some surprise.

‘Mr. Blake,’ replies Ymir, his expression teasing, taking a seat on the chair as Thor eats the hospital provided lunch. It was bland, but he would take all the food he could get if it meant he could get out. ‘You seem to be feeling better.’

‘I’m waiting to be released.’

‘This is not a prison,’ says the old man lightly, and when the blonde man snorts in response, he resumes with a more firm voice. ‘I was sent to visit you by Loki, the pretentious brat.’

‘Sent by Loki?’ Thor eyes Ymir uncertainly.

‘He has taken the throne, Thor.’ The old man looks around. ‘Nothing to wet my mouth?’

‘Water bottle right here,’ says Thor, reaching over the other side of his bed and snatching it up by the neck from the floor, handing it over. ‘Clean. Haven’t touched it.’

Ymir takes it with a nod, sipping a little, before talking once more. ‘Odin sits in a hostage situation, one finds. Loki has destroyed Svartalfheim – the vindictive boy that he is – and has every gang in this city on his side, except for the core Aesir that work directly with Odin.’

‘So, it’s done. The war is finished. Dozens have died, my friend’s funeral was last week and I couldn’t be there because I’m also a goddamn casualty and – ’ Thor cuts himself off, feeling frustration and anger rise up his throat, threatening to boil over. ‘And he can’t see me himself,’ he finishes, voice tight.

Ymir cocks his head. ‘You will be leaving this hospital in five days. It has been decided.’

‘Loki isn’t God,’ snaps Thor.

‘He certainly makes himself out to be,’ replies the old man primly. ‘But here, the doctors are gods, and they have accepted the request. In five days, you will be released from the hospital, with a pair of crutches, I imagine. I will arrive with an escort and we shall go to the finale of this war.’

‘I thought this was over.’

‘There is only one thing left to do now – and that is demonstrate power in front of the previous power. Just as Odin made a feast of Jotunheim in front of Laufey, Loki has pressed for the same.’ Ymir drinks of the water and makes a vague gesture with his hand. ‘It is all semantics. You will be there because you are his bodyguard.’

‘I can’t fucking walk,’ says Thor flatly.

‘Well, I hope you figure out how to in five days,’ replies Ymir, unimpressed. He stands, making the gestures to leave, and nods to Thor. ‘Do be ready. The meeting is on the sixth day – you will be housed for the night wherever Loki deems. Good day, Mr. Odinson.’

Thor watches him go and collapses back on the pillow, sandwich in hand, suddenly with no appetite and more worry creasing his stomach. Something wasn’t right. They were preparing for one last finale – and it wasn’t just going to be an egotistical strut in the park in front of Odin. Loki may have usurped the King, but a King was still a King.

-

ci.

The five days pass.

Sif and Volstagg visit once, and they cry, and make him promise over and over that once he gets out, he won’t go back. Won’t drift into gangs anymore, won’t follow Loki into any dark places, won’t risk himself for some cheap thrill and money. There has been a massacre, Thor, in a building with dozens dead – and Thor knows that Svartalfheim’s mangled bodies they speak of but he doesn’t bother explaining to them.

One last finale – he wants to say. Then I will be out, then I’ll leave and come hang out with you guys, drink coffee, talk about watching movies, maybe go back to university, get a degree, get a job. Normal people things.

They leave soon after, and Thor waits. He does sit ups, push-ups, stretching, and exercising in his ward while he waits, feeling soreness and pain but vehemently ignoring it. He needs to be ready, he knows. The grand finale.

Ymir walks into his ward just after lunch on the fifth day, catching Thor in a sit up, and coughs.

‘The staff are bringing in your clothes. Change and check out at the front desk. I will be waiting in the car. Hurry up.’

Thor slips into his jeans, fingering the hole the bullet passed through and looking at the brown stains of his blood splattered over the denim. Why the hospital staff have kept this, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t question it anymore. Simply shrugs on his t-shirt, picks up his dead phone, checks out of the hospital where they hand him a pair of crutches and steps into the dazzling sunlight.

Ymir is, surprisingly, in the driver’s seat of a blue car, and Thor goes inside, letting himself be chauffeured through the city. He rolls down the window, breathes in the fresh air, lets the humidity curl its fingers around the back of his neck, and feels a rush of relief.

It’s good to be back, he thinks – even if back meant Loki and his plans.

-

cii.

They arrive at a house right at edges of downtown. Quaint, colored a pale blue with a green lawn and rosebush in the front. The door is a pastel green, window curtains white, and located on a sleepy, quiet street where he suspects the neighbors have lived all their lives.

Ymir parks and they go inside – the buzz of air conditioning somewhere as they traverse the house’s open concept – no walls partitioning the kitchen, living room and dining room. He sees Jarnsaxa sitting at the table, beer in hand, doing a crossword in a tanktop and shorts, and Thrym across from her flipping channels on the TV on the far wall. They both glance up at the sound of the door opening and grin when they see him.

‘Thor!’ Jarnsaxa moves and hugs him, manoeuvring around the crutch he leans on, and Thor, surprised, hugs back. She pulls away, ‘do you want a beer? Oh, and Loki’s upstairs, waiting for you.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Thrym comes up behind her, also giving him a hug.

‘Sorry about your leg, hope you’re doing better,’ he says, and Thor nods.

‘Yeah, I am, I – thanks,’ he ends, lamely, still caught off-guard by the warmth of the greetings.

‘It’s because you’re one of us,’ says a voice and Thor turns, seeing Loki walk down a set of stairs on the far end of the house, dressed in white trousers and a tanktop too big for him. That’s mine, thinks Thor hazily, looking at the way the tattoos curve around Loki’s arms, ending at his wrist like calligraphy, jet black and stunning.

Jarnsaxa hands him a bottle, chilled and already open, and he takes a sip to wet his mouth and makes a sound of appreciation. ‘This is good,’ he tells her, and she nods.

‘Course, finest brew on this side of the country, Loki knows where to invest his money.’

‘I bought that case for only you,’ Loki tells her, ‘stop giving them away and making me buy more.’

‘No,’ smiles Jarnsaxa.

Thor snorts, and Loki rolls his eyes, beckoning him. ‘Come. I need to talk to you.’

-

ciii.

They’re in the master bedroom, Thor sitting on the bed, crutch between his legs, and Loki leaning against the desk across from him. Loki’s hair is mussed from the humidity, a sheen of sweat collected in the dip of his collarbone, and Thor feels his shirt sticking to his back too.

‘So, you finally are ending what you started,’ starts Thor after a period of silence as he watches Loki’s poison green eyes track every inch of him silently. At the sound of his voice, they flick up, momentarily confused before easing back into familiarity.

‘Yes. I have Jotunheim, I have Vanaheim, I have Nidavellier, I have Niflheim, I have Alfheim, I have everything and what I don’t have I will massacre.’ Loki lists them off as if it is a grocery list, his voice flat and bored. ‘Tomorrow, I will have a meeting on Ymir’s ground. He is neutral ground, surprisingly.’

‘How? He works for your mother and, by default, you.’

Loki half-smiles, ‘an arbitrary decision, I suppose. Tomorrow, all the heads will gather and I will sit at the top of the table. I need you there to protect me. And dress well.’

‘Why are you doing this if you’re going to be in danger?’ asks Thor roughly.

‘Because I always am and because it is necessary to tell everyone who their new king is. Odin did it, Laufey did it, and now it is my turn.’

‘If you get hurt,’ says Thor, but Loki cuts him off.

‘You will be there.’

Thor stares at Loki, half in disbelief, feeling the weakness in his leg and hating it. Loki moves towards him, hand on his shoulder as he presses his mouth to the top of Thor’s head, lips moving against the blonde strands as Thor pushes his face into the other’s stomach, eyes closed.

‘There will be security checks,’ says Loki, but the unease does not vanish from Thor’s gut. ‘No guns will be allowed on the premises. Just be there.’

Thor breathes in the smell of Loki and a hint of his own laundry detergent from the tank the man wears. It is all threaded together and comfortingly warm. He kisses Loki’s stomach, fingers tracing the hem, before pulling it upwards and pressing his lips to the flat, pale skin underneath. Loki sighs, his hands threaded in Thor’s hair, tilting his head back to kiss him.

Vaguely, when their mouths meet and press hot against each other, Thor wonders what they’re trying to distract each other from this time. The fact that Thor has a bullet-ridden leg or perhaps that Loki is guaranteed to be harmed somehow at this meeting of mobs. Maybe neither. Maybe just the fact that Thor isn’t there to protect at all – that Loki needs him for another plan in his sleeve, another small manipulation to do and they both know it.

The thoughts vanish somewhere to the back of his mind when Loki moans low in his throat, worrying at Thor’s bottom lip until it is swollen and red. He pulls back, sliding Thor’s shirt above him and licking a stripe up the blonde man’s neck. He scrapes his teeth over the dip of Thor’s collarbone, thumbing at a nipple and earning a gasp before sliding over the span of ribs, his fingers curling around the top of the jeans.

‘I want…’ Loki breathes against Thor’s neck, back arched as Thor’s hand traces the bumps of his spine.

‘Yeah?’ prompts Thor, fully aware of the soreness in his leg.

‘I want to fuck you,’ admits the other, and one of his hands gesture airily to the blood-splattered hole in the denim he sees. Thor nods, picking up his crutch and propping himself up. He walks to the top of the bed and sits down, peeling off his jeans and dropping them, followed by his underwear. Naked, he swings his legs onto the bed and lies down on his side, leaving his uninjured leg pressed against the sheets, back to Loki.

‘This should be okay,’ says Thor, waving to the space behind him and hears clothing being shed. The bedside drawer opens and shuts, and the bed dips under Loki’s weight when he comes up behind Thor, insinuating a leg between the blonde man’s.

Silently, Loki slicks his fingers with lube and works Thor open, stroking in and out of him languidly, making Thor shiver and move slowly along with the intrusion. His breathing turns heavy as the initial burn melts into a hot, slow creeping sensation up his spine, and his fingers clench into the sheets, focusing on the way Loki moves his hand.

Another dip, and Loki’s face appears above his own. Immediately, Thor cranes his neck upwards and licks at the seam of Loki’s lips until he can get in, taste the remnants of peppermint, coffee and smoke. The fingers inside of his twist and he gasps, helplessly, in the other man’s mouth. Loki pulls away, a half-smile on his face. The question hangs silently in the air.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ babbles Thor, aroused beyond belief, and groans at the touch of bare, slick cock against his entrance. Seconds later, Loki is pushing past the initial ring of muscle, slipping in until his balls are hot against Thor’s skin, his torso draped all along Thor’s back.

Loki’s breath is hot against Thor’s neck, his mouth moving so his lips brush against the first vertebrae lazily, ‘trust me, just, trust me,’ and Thor knows he’s not talking about the sex. His fingers curl into the sheets as Loki slowly bucks into him, cock sliding in and out as slow as molasses. The ache in his leg is there, but it fades easily into the background once he has a hand on his own dick, stroking it in tune with Loki.

‘More, fuck,’ says Thor in a low groan, hips twisting to get Loki inside deeper, and Loki responds by placing the flat of his palm against the base of Thor’s abdomen to hold him before thrusting in hard. Thor’s hand on his cock speeds up as Loki’s hips pick up the pace, fucking him deep. He wants to say something to Loki, but it feels too loud, too obscene in a place where they are tangled together, pressed up, intertwined and inescapable, and all that he has to say is lost in his groans and pants, but he imagines Loki knows, that Loki understands –

Loki does not relent – moving in and out of him, sweat-slick and earnest, his cock reaching inside of Thor and pressing against him in the best way. They move together, tightly-packed synergy, bodies clenched around each other, Thor struggling to recall any ounce of pain from his leg when he has Loki’s dick working into him, fucking him open and leaving him breathless.

‘Loki,’ he says, in that muffled silence, ‘Loki.’

‘Trust – ngh – me,’ pants Loki, bucking into him once, twice, thrice and coming, deep and warm, a feeling Thor has never felt, of semen seeping into him, and his orgasm crests in turn, finishing over his fingers and the sheet.

It takes a minute to regain their breaths, and Loki’s softened cock slips out of him in its own come, making Thor squirm to adjust to the feeling. He feels Loki’s hand pet his side, feeling his ribs underneath his skin, leaving kisses on the knobs of his spine.

‘Thank you,’ Loki murmurs, and Thor tangles his fingers with the other, keeping him there, just a little longer, just a little closer.

-

Chapter Text

-

cv.

He wakes hazily in the afternoon, Loki gone and semen a sticky reminder of what happened earlier in the day. Thor takes to the shower, cleans himself up, and bundles up in a bathrobe before descending the stairs. Jarnsaxa, eating pasta at the table, sees him and muffles laughter behind her hand.

Thor laughs with her, rubbing his neck in slight embarrassment, but shrugs it off. ‘We were much more quiet than usual,’ he tells her, opening the fridge and peeking in.

She snorts. ‘Sounded like a porno.’

‘A good one?’ asks Thor absently, fishing out a container of where he suspects Jarnsaxa got her food.

‘Yeah, had to relieve myself,’ pipes back the woman, and it is just the easy exchange that Thor wishes he could have all the time. He heats up the pasta in the microwave, watching across the room at the TV playing some muted drama show.

Once he sits at the table, the expression on Jarnsaxa’s face seems to sober up. ‘Tomorrow, you’re going to wear a suit, official business.’

‘I don’t own a suit. Or one that fits me, anyway,’ says Thor with a strained smile, thinking of the last time he wore a suit was at his mother’s funeral. Would Odin pay for her hospital bills if Thor told him? To have that burden relieved from him... No, Thor had to pay it off himself, through his own hard work, it was a matter of principle. If his mother could suffer for that long, he could easily work enough to live and pay it off.

‘Loki got one for you. It’s in the closet of the master bedroom. Try it on, see if it fits. Tomorrow, after dinner, you’ll put it on and we’ll leave.’

Thor cocks his head, ‘so mobsters do meet at night.’

‘Only the important ones. They do have jobs to do in the day.’ She swallows down a forkful of pasta, eyebrows raised, watching him.

He feels the ache in his leg and clench of his gut in anticipation to what will happen. Looking at her, with her young, smooth face, Thor can’t help but ask, ‘why are you in this business?’

She smiles, shrugs, ‘the family business, Thor. Big brother Thrym fell in with Loki and his mother, and I followed in turn. Once you’re in, you can’t get out. But it’s not bad. I put my skill set to use and meet beautiful women.’ Jarnsaxa laughs, looking down thoughtfully at her pasta. ‘We do things… that maybe other people wouldn’t. But, we’re not heartless killing machines. We just follow a different value system.’

‘I understand,’ says Thor, because for the first time after a long time, he can finally admit he does.

-

cvi.

The suit fits Thor well, and he looks good in it – black jacket, trousers, tie, framed against a dark red button up shirt. There are cufflinks on the bedside table, but he ignores it and changes out of the suit, hanging it back up carefully, and waits in the bedroom. He spends his time looking at the half dozen books on the desk and the various, illegible notes Loki has scrawled over pieces of paper, and ponders calling Volstagg or Sif from the house phone since his cell is still dead.

He will see Fandral tomorrow, he realizes vaguely. What will he say to him? How will Fandral react? And the twins. Killers of Hogun. He feels the bile rise in his throat – did Fandral have to watch, was he involved? Hogun, who was found dead outside of the city, executed gangland style… Thor breathes heavily through his nose, gritting his teeth so he won’t puke. Won’t cry. Won’t lose himself completely.

He thinks about killing the twins just as ruthlessly as they must have killed Hogun. He could do it too, which doesn’t surprise him at this point. Loki would be displeased, but then again – perhaps Loki has planned to drop Vanaheim all along after he gets Asgard. In the end, it didn’t matter what Loki did after, it was the fact that Thor could get away with it. Could hurt the twins and end them. Was this how Loki made his decisions? Fueled by feelings of righteousness and love? Would you consider this months ago? Before Loki? No, Thor wouldn’t, and he wants to laugh. Once you’re in, you can’t get out.

It’s dusky enough outside that he decides to call it a day and sleep, knowing that he will need it for his leg at least. If there was one thing medical professionals shoved down his throat – it was rest. Thor imagines he can hear Jarnsaxa washing her dishes, sink filling with water, and wonders why she is here. Is she his minder? Did Loki think Thor would run for it? Escape before daylight? His gut clenches at the distrust and he turns onto his side, feeling the pain running up his leg to get away from his thought.

But… If all goes right… Tomorrow would be the last time he would ever have to be involved… Unless, his father… Thor feels the start of a headache come on and finds medicine in the bathroom, tossing two pills back and lying back on the bed, which still smelled faintly of come and sex. Ignoring it, Thor squeezes his eyes shut and falls asleep.

-

cvii.

‘We can’t find her.’

‘How hard are you looking?’ asks Loki, leaning back in his chair as he watches the midnight cityscape from the window behind Hel. They’re in her office and it’s late, but he can feel the excitement thrum in his veins. In a few hours, it would be over and he will have won. Only in a few hours.

‘Funny,’ scowls Hel, chin propped in her hand as she twirls her pen in the other. ‘Ymir’s security is going to frisk you bad. Don’t think you have any hope of bringing in any of your blades.’

‘A minor inconvenience. I’m bringing a bodyguard.’

‘Thrym?’ asks the woman with a twist to her mouth, ‘or your precious Odinson?’

He doesn’t bother to reply and it’s an answer enough.

Hel shakes her head incredulously. ‘You had me drug another Odinson, drive him up to that barn, have him kill a cop and faint at the crime scene. Just for this one man.’

‘Now the Vanir owe us for getting a thorn out of their side, no?’ says Loki. ‘The cop was going to die anyway. Nothing to do with Thor. It was just fate that he came around when I was talking with Baldr.’

‘Talking,’ repeats the other flatly.

‘Talking,’ smiles the man.

Hel seems to tire of this conversation. She leans back, scowling, pen dropping onto the wood of the desk. ‘Go home, get some sleep, fuck someone, and don’t be late. Jotunheim will be escorting Odin out at eight-thirty. We meet at Ymir’s at nine. Don’t be late.’

‘Is the house arrest going well, then? Mother did say she would take care of it.’

‘It’s fine. Vanaheim provided guns, and Laufey has enough trained men and women to guard an old man. He’s under twenty four hour surveillance and hasn’t done anything alone except take a shit.’

‘He must have something else planned.’ Loki taps his fingers on the desk, face deep in thought. ‘Why haven’t we found the woman yet? And has he asked where she is?’

‘Not that Laufey’s men have reported. He just continues life as usual – breakfast, bathes, reads a book, lunch, weeps a little, lunch, drinks a bit, dinner, sleeps. They have scoured for bugs, and took away the guns. He acts as if he’s never had a wife. Or a family.’

‘Fuck.’ He frowns. ‘We’re missing something. He’s not some helpless senior citizen. He got the bluebloods away, for fuck’s sake, he knows what to do and he will have some contingency plan.’

‘After tomorrow, he won’t have time for any swan song, Loki,’ says Hel calmly. ‘Once Asgard is passed along to you, he is a helpless senior citizen. With a few nice houses.’

Yet, Loki scowls anyway, shaking his head.

‘Go home, go to sleep,’ insists the woman, ‘there is nothing left for us to do.’ Eventually, Loki gives in, grabbing his jacket and bidding her goodnight. The worry gnaws at his stomach, but underneath is the anticipation. Tomorrow was Odin’s only chance to do anything, and if they could weather it over, the documentation signed and passed on, Loki will have won. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

-

cviii.

Thor is still asleep when Loki slides under the sheets. He doesn’t fall asleep, only lazily blinks, tracing the contours of the other’s face in the dim electric light that shines through the window. He never expected this – to have Thor in his bed, under his skin, so close and tight that Loki does not – will not – let him go.

In fact the rapidity of Loki’s spiral into the destructive gravitational pull of Thor fucking Odinson should be deemed unhealthy. Almost two months later with Thor, and Loki could carve up dozens of bodies if he thought it would lengthen the time he could have with the other. I’m not normal, I’m not sane, I want nothing to do with an ordinary life, but I want him.

If Laufey knew about this… His mother would smile down at him, stroke a hand on his cheek, patience and exasperation in those eyes and tell him he doesn’t get these things. That lovers are toys to control and manipulate and not to be controlled and manipulated by. That this is why Kvasir was always at an arm’s length. Never in her bed, not like Thor. ‘We don’t deserve these things, Loki, because we’re the kings and queens of killers and liars and scum. We don’t warrant happiness, and we never will.’ And, truth be told, Loki believes her.

-

cix.

The morning comes creeping up through the slats of the window, laying golden squares upon Thor’s hair and Loki kisses his neck, feeling him shift and wake drowsily, a hand reaching out and touching the fabric of Loki’s tank top.

‘You’re back,’ he rumbles, eyes fluttering open, and Loki is already skimming his fingers under the hem of Thor’s t-shirt, feeling the warm skin underneath. He presses the flat of his palm against the other’s abdomen, before sliding around to his back, and curling his arm, bringing Thor into a loose hug. They are so close that he can feel the blonde man laugh. ‘Someone is being sentimental today.’

‘It’s the morning of my coronation, Thor, so you must do what I say,’ he replies easily, tucking his mouth under Thor’s jaw, smelling his own shampoo and soap on him under a layer of ozone that seems to permeate everything Thor touches.

‘And your first order will be…’ trails off the man, laying his hand on Loki’s neck, and he can feel the heaviness of it, reminding him how much bulkier Thor is, even after his stint in the hospital.

‘Mm, shower. Together,’ he announces, before kissing the bristle of a beard underneath Thor’s jawline, and pulling away.

-

cx.

Loki jerks them both off in the shower, long fingers wrapped around their cocks, pressed from root to tip, with his hand sliding smoothly over them both. Thor lazily mouths at his collarbone, his head tilted downwards so when Loki wraps his hand around the other’s neck, he can feel the shift and bump of the first vertebrae of his spine.

It is slow and good – kissing Thor like this under the spray of hot water, feeling the tip of his cock shove under the ridge of the other’s and pop back up, sending a jolt of pleasure into his belly. They rock together, precome beading and spread over by Loki’s thumb, and tightening his fingers so the friction is inescapable.

Thor groans, low, his own hand coming up to wrap around just under Loki’s fingers, the callouses of his construction job rubbing against the side of his cock. Loki keens, bucking into it, wanting to feel Thor stroke him off tight and fast. Instead, the hand skirts downwards, and Thor’s hot fingers are rubbing against his perineum in circles as his hips roll into Loki’s grasp.

‘Fuck,’ says Loki, the only word he is able to get out as his mouth dries up from his arousal. The other man laughs low, his one hand around Loki’s neck so he can kiss him shut, and the other cradling his balls, rolling them to make Loki moan.

Thor tastes of toothpaste and mint and he swallows up all the needy keens that burst forth from Loki’s throat, tongue trailing over the ridges on the roof of his mouth, over the tips of his teeth, slick against Loki’s own tongue.

Loki increases his pace, sliding his hand over their cocks with more friction and force, and wants to grin when Thor pulls away, hissing, his hips bucking to get more. ‘C’mon, Loki,’ he says, voice strained, and Loki decides to follow through, the hand on Thor’s neck sliding downwards, over a nipple, to cup his balls and press a finger against the puffed, pink entrance.

Thor’s eyes flutter open as Loki slides a finger in, his other hand still stroking them both relentlessly, sliding up and down, occasionally pausing to press his thumb against their slits and moan loudly at the stimulation. He finger fucks Thor while bucking his own hips into his grip, feeling the arousal pool into his abdomen and build up.

‘God, shit, Loki,’ sighs out Thor, and Loki turns his wrist, letting his cock slip free and stroke rough and tight around Thor’s dick, tugging insistently around the head, rocking his finger into him, and

Thor comes with a groan that he presses against Loki’s mouth. The semen washes down the drain, and Thor jerks him off, the pads of his fingers rough and his grip warm and large, and it’s a wonder Loki even lasts more than a dozen strokes before he finishes, dripping over Thor’s hand.

‘This the last time we do this?’ asks Thor, leaving soft butterfly kisses over Loki’s cheeks, and Loki shivers.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll be busy being king of the city and all.’

‘No, no,’ says Loki, lips finding Thor’s again, trying to shut him up before – before – god, he doesn’t even know anymore. ‘No, now I’m going to have you every day.’

-

cxi.

They have a late breakfast, and Loki goes out for a walk that lasts for hours through the neighborhood, wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans against the humid warmth of the day. He texts Hel periodically for updates and wonders where the damned wife has gone. His mother calls him once, tells him Jotunheim is moving out in three hours, and he comes back to eat dinner with Jarnsaxa, Thrym, and Thor, who have cracked open chilled beer and made barbeque.

Loki eats quietly, watching Jarnsaxa joke with Thor and Thrym laugh over his bottle. It feels like the calm before the storm. He washes dishes with Thrym at the sink, and Jarnsaxa pulls out the ice cream, serving it out while Thor wipes down the table. The domesticity of the scene is almost overwhelming, the normalcy – is this life on the other side?

‘It’s just mint chocolate chip, it’s not going to kill you,’ Jarnsaxa says flatly, handing him the bowl and spoon, and he makes another point of staring at the obscene colour before eating it, leaning against the sink counter as he sees Thor lounge on the sofa with Thrym at his side, and Jarnsaxa kicked back against the loveseat with her bowl and a book.

I don’t want to lose this. The thought is suffocating. Threatening to make his chest cave in and collapse on itself. Loki swallows down his last spoonful with some silent urgency, before washing the dishes and announcing, ‘Thor, get ready. We leave in two hours.’

-

cxii.

As Thor pulls on his trousers, he sees Loki slowly button up his shirt before his phone vibrates and he picks it up with a low greeting. It takes a few seconds but then Loki’s shoulders go stiff and he growls out a low, ‘explain’ before he striding to the bathroom and closing the door.

Thor dresses quickly, resolutely ignoring the cufflinks because he will not owe Loki anymore than he already does, and decides to wait downstairs. When Jarnsaxa catches sight of him, she snorts, and Thrym rolls his eyes. ‘Do you even know how to knot a tie?’ After Thrym ties it once more, to Jarnsaxa’s hummed approval, Thor sits at the kitchen table with his dinner jacket slung over the chair and does a crossword puzzle to occupy his time.

When after an hour, there is still no sign of Loki, Thor puts down his pen and grabs the jacket before striding up the stairs, curiosity and worry gnawing at his stomach. He opens the door to the bedroom and there is Loki sitting on the bed.

His back is straight, head tilted slightly back, and his hair slicked as to flare at his neck. The white button up shirt fits well on his long, lean frame, the trousers black, socks as well, with the dinner jacket draped by his thigh. His hands rest in his lap, the phone cradled between his fingers as if made of china, and he is crying. Thor sees tear tracks down his pale cheeks, his mouth parted as he breathes slowly and deeply – in and out.

‘Loki,’ says Thor, quiet, and Loki squeezes his eyes shut before opening them once more and looking at Thor with the green eyes shining disconcertingly.

‘If I get hurt,’ he starts, and Thor instantly snaps out a, ‘shut up.’

‘Thor,’ tries Loki, once more, but is once more cut off.

‘No, look, you’ll be fine, you’ll be okay, there’s security, this is the payoff, just,’ rambles Thor helplessly, wanting to reach out to touch Loki but worried that if he does – that they will both break. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t. Please. Fuck.’

Loki is watching him with that tear-stained face and Thor thinks he’s going to puke. Something was going to go wrong, and Loki knew. And if he was sitting here crying, then there was no stopping it. There was no solution. There was no fucking escape.

‘Thor,’ says Loki, softly, gently, the name sliding off his tongue with ease, and Thor shuts his jaw with an audible click. ‘You have to promise me this – that if anything happens to me, you won’t do anything about it.’

‘I’ll kill them,’ replies Thor flatly. ‘If they touch you, I’ll kill them.’

Dragging a hand down his face to wipe away the remnants of his tears, he laughs, bitterly. ‘You can’t.’ He takes a shuddering breath and stands up, sliding his palms down his thighs to straighten his trousers and grabbing his tie from under his dinner jacket. Wrapping it around his neck, he knots it with efficiency, speaking now with something akin to steadiness, ‘promise me you won’t do anything in some sort of revenge for me. You cannot. I will not permit you.’

‘No.’

Loki turns on his heel, scowling. ‘Promise me, or I do not take you to this meeting at all, Thor.’

‘Fuck you,’ he snaps.

He should have expected getting a face full of Loki shoved against him, those poison green eyes hardened into steel. ‘I would have you alive, if you don’t mind,’ he snarls.

‘And I wouldn’t?’ retorts Thor. Loki’s face crumples, and he surges forward, crushing his mouth against Thor. Thor kisses back with that same urgency, uncaring of how the other man’s nails dig into his scalp as he tries to drown himself in the heat and desperation.

It feels like the end of something. An omen. He doesn’t care – not now, not now, not now – not where he can clutch against another body and not have to let go because if Loki is going to die, if anyone was going to die, he doesn’t know where he’ll go from there. He is inexorably tied with them now – these killers and liars and thieves. It’s a truth that finally settles in Thor – after months of trying to get away from it.

Eventually, they come back up for air, and Loki’s mouth is set in grim line, ‘do this for me.’

‘I don’t know if I can,’ he admits, and Loki closes his eyes.

‘Humour me, then. Until I’m proven dead, until my body is in a casket and burned, then don’t do anything. Don’t.’ He sounds world-weary. ‘Please. I love you.’

Thor swallows, hides his face in the crook of Loki’s neck, ‘okay,’ he says in a rush, ‘okay, okay, okay.’

They part and begin their descent down the stairs.

-

cxiii.

They drive to Ymir with Loki and Thor in the backseat and Thrym and Jarnsaxa at the front. The ride is fairly silent, punctuated with Loki’s instructions and facts about the meeting that he throws out, as dusk settles its orange fingers over the various downtown building. Ymir’s office is one of these, and they shall use the conference room on the ninth floor. Thor stares resolutely ahead, unable to look at Loki.

Thrym drops them off at the corner, and they both walk in their tailored suits to the side entrance where a man resembling a club bouncer nods and opens the door for them. The lobby is deserted, coated in red and orange sunlight through the wall made of glass.

Once in the elevator, Loki slides a knife from his sleeve, contemplating it, before dropping it on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud. ‘It’s of no use here,’ he says, and Thor nods.

The moment they step out, the security is heavy. Dozen men armed and ruthless seeming. They gesture towards a long hallway which ends with two heavy set men flanking a wooden door with the number 900 bolted onto it. Once they reach the men, metal detectors are swiftly pulled out and waved over their persons before a physical search is conducted.

Then, they step aside and Loki opens the door, letting it swing inward to a large, rectangular room with a long, mahogany table, chairs, and the entire wall made of glass, letting it turn from deep orange to red, the shadows creeping along the cream-coloured walls as the bulbs that hang from the ceiling shine dimly.

‘Loki,’ greets Ymir, and everyone in the room stands up as he walks in, with Thor behind. The door closes shut behind them. They are evidently the last to arrive, yet there is not one hint of reproach in Ymir. It has begun. The old man swings out his arms in greeting, ‘welcome to the Lokasenna.’

-

cxiv.

The table is rectangular and at one end sits Odin All-Father, face gaunt, and wrinkled hands placed flat against the wood. The other end sits Ymir as the host. Thor takes a long look around – there are eight mob heads seated at the table along with Loki and Ymir, and their respective bodyguards stand behind them like stone statues. Thor hopes he can hide the limp from them because he knows they all have killing in their skill set and he doesn’t. Why would Loki pick me as his bodyguard? I don’t know anything.

There is something else Loki wants. A backup plan. And Thor is part of that plan, whether he knows it or not. He reverts his attention back to the table, seeing people all dressed in formal wear, with distinct shades of reds or browns or blues to represent their different mobs.

He recognizes the three main mob heads – Odin, with Laufey on his right, and the three Vanir beside her, Freya, Freyr and Fandral. Fandral is staring at him openly, his mouth gaping soundlessly, and Thor cracks a weak smile, and it is anything but a consolation. On Odin’s left is Loki, the reigning prince and future king of the table. Beside Loki comes Hel, and beside her a skinny fellow he recognizes from a picture as Jormungandr, representing Niflheim and Nidavellier respectively.

The woman with hair so blonde it could pass as white seats herself beside Jormungandr, and Thor guesses Alfheim. Beside Fandral is an Asian man with black hair plaited down his back, and dark brown eyes that comes from Muspulheim. Finally, across from him, is a dark-skinned, bald, bulky man with an eyepatch representing Midgard.

Thor scouts the bodyguards too. Odin’s is a huge, built man named Tyr. Behind Laufey is a slender killing machine named Thjazi. Freya brings a tall man named Ull, while Fenrir lurks behind Hel. Jormungandr is guarded by an older woman named Sigyn. Muspulheim’s Surtr has a tall woman named Sinmara with him. Behind Alfheim’s Gerd stands a grim-faced man named Skirnir. Finally, Midgard’s Fury is accompanied by a stone-faced Coulson.

The door to the room is behind Odin, and Thor watches it warily as he takes his stand behind Loki. Ymir stands from his seat, ‘will anyone be having drinks this evening?’

Silence – a few hand waves and shaking of their heads. No. Ymir nods. ‘Then we shall proceed. We are gathered here, nine mob heads, one heir, one host. Unfortunately, Svartalfheim has been eliminated from the city altogether. Now, we are eight.

‘This meeting has been called by Loki Laufeyson, and will pertain the ascension from heir of Jotunheim to the head of Asgard.’ Ymir turns and from the shadowed corners come two men, twins with dark hair and dark skin. ‘Muninn, Huginn, the documents if you will.’ Thor sees them reach under their jackets and pull out a stack of papers, quickly unfolded in Ymir’s long fingers and compared. Once determined as identical copies, he lets the twins take the papers and walk down the table, placing them before Odin and Loki, then setting two sleek pens beside them.

‘Are there any objections?’ There shouldn’t be. This was merely a formality. The true war was done and over with. The proverbial empty seat where Svartalfheim’s head was poof of it. All these heads had bowed to Loki, switching allegiances once the wind started to blow against them.

Odin coughs, his hands never moving, and nods. ‘I object.’

Freya snorts, looking unimpressed. Loki’s shoulders are lined with tension.

‘I invite you to speak, then,’ replies Ymir, taking his seat and gesturing at the twins. They go to the cabinet at the back of the room and poor him something amber in a glass, placing it in front of him with a small clink. He drinks and waits.

‘Laufeyson is but a mere boy and presumes he has the power to turn our world upside down for a piece of Asgard,’ says Odin flatly.

Laufey glances over, ‘do not forget, I was his age when I crushed you for a year.’

There are small chuckles around the room. Thor knows Laufey is respected at the table. The All-Father is feared.

‘I would never,’ says Odin, face grave, ‘but now you’re but a shadow of your former self. Jotunheim is a dying mob.’

The jab at her pride makes her growl, and Laufey’s green eyes darken with rage as she snarls. ‘I would watch your mouth, old man.’ Thor glances at her bodyguard, Thjazi, and isn’t surprised to note that he has both hands at his side, ready to move.

Ymir claps his hands once. ‘It is the All-Father who speaks, Laufey.’

Laufey’s jaw shuts with an audible click. Odin looks down the table. ‘Thank you, Ymir. Now, it seems that everyone gathered at this table is against me, and will for Laufeyson to take my crown.’ He licks his mouth. ‘I would ask Ymir to bring me my contingency plan.’

The table starts up. ‘So we’re bringing outside materials to meetings now, huh? Can I have my gun back then?’ snaps Freya loudly, much to the assent of the rest. Surtr is growling, ‘This is against the rules.’ Laufey is glaring up at Thjazi, snarling, ‘how did he get access to anything, he was on house arrest.’

Ymir claps his hands again. The twins have arrived with a plastic package. ‘This was entrusted to me but two weeks before this meeting. Odin did not bring anything to this room that wasn’t already here except himself.’ He unfolds the plastic and hands it over Huginn and Muninn.

They walk down the table, one on each side and place small black squares in front of each mob head. Fury pipes up, ‘and you think USB sticks are gonna get you out of this? You’re old news, All-Father. Best to let this one go before we all think you’ve gone senile.’

Odin ignores the quip. ‘These USB sticks contain information about all the horrible little things you all have done under the name of your mob.’

Hel hands hers over to Fenrir, who drops it on the floor and crushes it under his boot.

‘Oops,’ she says flatly.

Everyone follows suite, handing the sticks off to their bodyguards – Sigyn also crushes it with her foot, Sinmara bites it in half, Skirnir and Ull snap theirs in half, and Coulson takes it apart, letting the pieces fall to the floor. Thor – for a vague, terrified moment – expects Loki to hand it over to him and force him to do some feat of strength or skill in front of them all. However, both Laufey and Loki pocket the sticks into their pants.

‘You people think yourselves cunning, don’t you?’ asks Odin with a long-suffering sigh. ‘I would not bring my true salvation into enemy territory. There is someone outside of this room who has copies. And quite direct access to a police station. In fact, I hear there’s one right around the block.’

The table stills. Thor grows cold – this is where it ends. This is where Loki is stopped. The mob heads watch Odin warily.

‘And what,’ starts Alfheim’s Gerd, voice high-pitched and soft, ‘will stop this, exactly?’

Odin smiles, ‘you come back to me.’

Loki has remained silent and still the entire time and seems to be intent on continuing in the same vein. Thor wishes he’d do something. Anything.

‘We’re not stupid,’ snaps Fury, ‘if you don’t rip us apart, Laufey junior over there is going to hunt us down and make sure all my men are dead.’

Gerd interjects, ‘there is no computer here to verify the contents. How can we even be sure what you’re saying is true?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to err on the side of caution?’ asks Odin. The mob heads contemplate each other and table.

Ymir interrupts. ‘I know. I have seen the contents. In it include case files and proof of certain proceedings. There is evidence to land certain murders, as well as Loki’s kidnapping of the Vanir twins, and other such actions. This was obviously obtained through none other than Idunn and her specialized resources.’

Loki’s shoulders stay tense. It doesn’t even seem he is breathing. Thor wishes he was standing in front of the man, instead of behind. The back of his dark hair is not comforting.

Laufey’s lip curls up in disgust. She’s watching her son intently. Loki stares ahead over Odin’s shoulder, a hand on the table beside the pen and contract. Thor feels like the tension is going to cut him in half.

‘We are to trust our host,’ says Jormungandr finally. ‘If Ymir says so, then it should be. However, I for one still wish for Loki to have Asgard’s throne.’

‘Who is this person on the outside?’ asks Freyr slowly. ‘Tyr is here, and your sons are dead or locked up,’ here, Odin clenches his jaw, ‘and so who is left? Your wife. Frigga.’

‘Who is presently missing,’ announces Hel derisively. ‘She disappeared perhaps one or two days before the commencement of the All-Father’s house arrest.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me,’ snaps Freya. ‘So she’s just running around with our fucking criminal records like a children’s storybook while we’re sitting here waiting for an old man to sign a piece of paper?’

‘It seems so,’ replies Hel coolly.

‘And how do we know she hasn’t gone to the cops already?’

‘Frigga will only go to the cops if I am left all my assets and resources, and Loki gets nothing,’ says Odin.

Finally – finally, to Thor’s immense surprise yet relief – Loki speaks up for the first time at the table. He levels the All-Father with an intense gaze and says, quite succinctly, ‘you don’t know anything, do you?’

Odin seems affronted at the question. ‘I am here to win, Laufeyson. Not hand over my empire to your filthy hands.’

‘I would advise you to shut up and sign the contract,’ replies Loki coldly. There is something that passes between them, as if Odin has just hit a nerve. The old man thins his mouth in a grim smile. His gaze flicks up to Thor, and Thor feels the weight of the stare on his shoulders, pressing him into the hardwood floors underneath.

‘It seems that there is a problem,’ says Odin slowly, ‘I cannot hand my empire to Loki because a more rightful heir has shown his face.’

‘Both your sons are gone,’ says Laufey slowly, as if talking to a small child. ‘Let me remind you that Loki killed Baldr. And your other son, Hod, shot a blueblood between the eyes under some mistaken belief that the blueblood was the cause of his brother’s death. All that remains is Loki to take your empire for you to be free of this.’

Thor glances over at the Vanir twins in surprise, and sees Fandral clenching his teeth, a hand curled tightly in Freyr’s sleeve. So, Hogun hadn’t been killed by the Vanir twins. No, Hogun was killed by his half-brother. Hod was in jail now, of course, and Thor can only feel helpless despair in him – justice had been mete out and all he could do now was mourn.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ groans Fury, ‘look, you have another kid you want to give this to? Well, guess what they’re not here. And Loki has proven himself to be more competent than your wrinkled ass.’

‘Surely you see the resemblance,’ says Odin, faking surprise with a sharp smile, ‘I have four sons, though it seems only three people in this room seem to know so.’

Jormungandr this time: ‘You are Grimnir Borson. There are two Griminirsons. Why haven’t you introduced your other two?’

‘Because the other two were born outside of wedlock. Bastard sons. It doesn’t matter,’ says Loki. ‘They shouldn’t qualify.’

Thor swallows. What was Odin aiming for?

‘A bastard sits at this table,’ says Odin, ‘willing to take my empire. I should have the choice to give it to his older brother.’

‘And who is the older brother?’ asks Gerd.

‘Me,’ says Thor faintly, staring at the back of Loki’s head.

The mob heads all turn towards him, dressed in his suit, his hair mussed and everything about him – his broad shoulders, his nose, his face, all like Odin. He has taken after his father, except for his hair and eyes. He wants to vomit.

– Loki is sitting at the table. Loki is a bastard son. Loki is his brother –

‘Shit,’ breathes Freya, staring openly at him. ‘You’re fucking your brother.’

Fury groans. ‘The fuck is wrong with you people? Aesir and Jotnar and Vanir, shit, way to keep it in the family.’

‘We wouldn’t have to if everyone wasn’t scum like you,’ replies Freyr primly.

‘Watch your mouth, pretty boy,’ Fury snaps.

Thor tries to think, tries to make a single coherent thought that doesn’t scream ‘incest’ at him, but he can’t. He can’t figure it out, and Loki is sitting there, in front of him, deadly still, as if waiting for something else. He can still feel Loki pressed against him in the hospital ward, telling him, firmly, ‘I promised I would tell you everything. You’re going to hate me’.

‘Why would I give this to you, Loki Laufeyson Odinson?’ says Odin, ‘when your big brother, Thor Odinson Fjorgynson, stands right behind you?’

Freya makes a sound of surprise, ‘your mother was Fjorgyn? No wonder you’re a berserkr.’

‘You’re a berserkr? So you got those genes, hm?’ says Odin, watching Thor much more intently. His voice goes wistful. ‘You have her eyes. And her hair. You look like my son Baldr.’

Thor can’t speak, he’s struck dumb, facing the old man and feeling like his chest will collapse if he so much as says a word. It’s all coming back to him now. Clicking together – Ymir must have given Baldr the name ‘Odinson’. And Loki would never admit to that heritage, so Baldr must have found Thor instead. Shot him.

– You’re mine, Thor, in every single way –

In circumstance, in love, and in blood. Did Loki always know about this? Did Loki crawl into his lap, kiss him till he was breathless and hard in front of Laufey’s home knowing full well that they were brothers? Did Loki fuck him after Kvasir’s death with this knowledge? And all the times after that?

‘Does Frigga know?’ asks Loki softly. ‘About me. About Thor. About my mother and Fjorgyn.’

Odin glances at him. ‘I fail to see the relevance.’

‘I fail to see the relevance in this entire conversation,’ says Hel. ‘Sign the document. Leave. Your time is over. And your contingency plan? You have no reassurance it will work.’

‘Why not? I walk out of this building with Jotunheim’s henchmen in tow, and Frigga will do as is instructed.’

Hel pauses, looking at Loki, and he nods at her. ‘I have not been entirely honest regarding your wife’s disappearance – ’

That’s when it happens.

-

cxv.

The rattle of gunfire is abrupt in the hallway outside of the room. It goes on for a minute. There are thuds of bodies hitting the ground and rapid steps getting louder and louder as they approach the door.

Surtr is standing, yelling, ‘Sinmara, to the door!’ and Laufey is making rapid gestures, her voice coming out fast and sharp – ‘Tyr, take the side, you too, Freya. Thjazi approach from the corner – ’

Fenrir is wheeling Hel to the back of the room beside Ymir, and Jormungandr is snapping out instructions to Sigyn while keeping his eye on his older sister. ‘Keep her safe, Fenrir,’ he snarls, and Fenrir goes to stand by Hel’s side, arms hanging tensed.

Coulson rushes around the room, grabbing a chair that Gerd has evacuated and prepares to throw it at the door – the entrance now flanked with Tyr on one side and Sinmara and Freya on the other. Thor tries to spot Fandral in the commotion and sees him with Freyr crouched by the side of the table, ready to duck at any sudden gunfire. Laufey and Odin are standing in front of their chairs, unmoving. Only Loki remains seated. All others are in some motion of ducking or attacking.

More noises now: the two men Thor remembers who searched them must be the loud slams and grunts that occur. The fight seems to last but a few seconds – three more slams and a dull thud on the floor.

Thor is still reeling from his thoughts to even react appropriately – he only manages to brace himself against the wall behind Loki, ready to lunge out if he needs to, but he knows it’s nothing to what the others are doing. He takes a breath – listens.

There are more steps, clicking of guns, and – finally – a knock on the door.

Freya glances at Laufey, who nods. Freya gestures to Tyr, the one by the doorknob, and he slowly unlocks it.

The door swings open.

Lightning quick, Sinmara swings from behind Freya and delivers a practiced high kick to whoever is at the door. She is a blur of black and red, and her leg meets something with a loud slap. Just as fast, Sinmara has a knee to her gut and she’s rammed against the edge of the table, beside Odin. She crumples, unconscious.

Tyr is moving now, and the intruder is in sight. She’s a muscled woman, tall, with blonde hair in a long braid down her back and dressed in cargo pants, a black shirt and black leather jacket with gloves. She’s deadly fast, slamming her fist right into Tyr’s sternum, pushing him back.

It is obvious to Thor that she is trained in something with the way she drives Tyr into a corner, dodging his fists and, finally, bringing her foot right against his side – echoing with the telltale crunch of ribs shattering.

There are more noises – Freya is occupied by a dark-haired woman, more slim than the blonde but still trained. Her elbow collides with Freya’s cheekbone, then her heel is slamming into the redhead’s stomach, ramming her into the wall with a sickening crack.

The fights finish roughly the same time and no one has time to move before a third woman has arrived on the scene, a submachine gun hoisted in her arms as she cocks it and aims down the table. The bodyguards of the mob heads are wary now – seeing three of their own dispatched with trained ease.

Thor can’t breathe. Fear and adrenaline and rushing through his veins and yet – and yet – Loki remains composed and seated, watching the entrance as still as a statue and perhaps just as impartial.

The woman with the gun takes a step the side and from behind her emerges Thor’s mother.

-

cxvi.

She is beautiful, is his first thought. Blonde hair pulled up in a bun, a face lined with age but carried with confidence, electric blue eyes, and a neck that seems like an architectural dream – straight and regal. She’s dressed in white – a white blazer overtop a gold-embroidered shirt, and white trousers.

‘Frigga,’ breathes Odin, surprise laced into his voice, and Thor is shoved ruthlessly back into reality. This woman is not a perfect image of his mother. No, she seemed similar in age but Jord… Jord was softer, her eyes brighter, and her hair longer and straight, not curled. He takes a breath. So this was a mob wife. Ruthless, regal, and ice cold.

‘Odin,’ she replies, voice even and cool. She looks at the rest of the room and nods her head. ‘Yggdrassil.’

The mob heads watch her with calculated gazes, trying to predict her next move. She raises a hand and gestures at the blonde haired woman. ‘Brunhilde, your gun.’

Brunhilde reaches behind her jacket and pulls out a standard 9mm gun, holding it with ease in her gloved hand. Frigga turns her head to look behind her and steps aside – and in pour other woman, in bulletproof vests and cargo pants, of all races and colours, only similar in age and dress and the submachine guns they carry in their hands.

They circle the room, aiming their guns at various mob heads, and do not say a word. Frigga takes a long look around the room and nods. ‘Do not move or my people will shoot,’ she informs them. Brunhilde still stands with her gun in hand.

‘Am I right in assuming everyone here is a criminal?’ she asks, a sardonic smile smeared over her mouth. She levels her gaze onto Odin. ‘I’m not here for anyone but you, and one another.’

‘Frigga,’ says Odin, evidently recovering from his shock, his voice going sharp, ‘what are you doing? How – how did you know about this?’

‘You always kept me in the dark,’ she sighs, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a gold-plated case. ‘But you always seemed to forget about my little sister. You think I didn’t have an inkling of what you do here? I am friends with Ymir.’

The old man reels back as if physically stunned, but he recovers and grows still, his tone flat. ‘You were his source into Asgard.’

Frigga smiles coldly at him, pulling a thin cigarette from the case and snapping it closed. She drops it back into her pocket, before cocking her head. ‘Your biggest flaw, my dear husband, is that you never pay attention to those closest to you.’

She pulls a lighter from her other pocket, lights the cigarette, and takes a long drag. Turning her head, she sees Laufey and nods at her. ‘Laufey.’

‘Frigga,’ the woman replies. ‘What brings you here?’

Cocking her blonde head, she asks, her tone warm with sympathy, ‘my husband raped you, didn’t he?’

Laufey snorts, ‘as if I would let him. It was, unfortunately, consensual.’ She makes a face, and there is something like understanding in Frigga’s expression, before it is replaced with the customary coolness as Odin speaks up:

‘Frigga, what are you doing?’

Brunhilde interrupts, ‘the police will have been alerted about the gunshots by now, we should move, my lady.’

‘My lady?’ Odin seems struck, confused, and his words echo everyone else in the room.

Frigga nods, smoking, and stepping around her husband to look at the table. The contracts remain there, along with the pens, unsigned. Loki remains seated, silent, and he matches her gaze once it falls on him.

‘You are not Thor,’ she says simply, and flicks her wrist at Brunhilde, who raises her gun and shoots him.

-

cxvii.

Thor sees him fly back – a spurt of red, and Loki crumples to the ground, his face white, eyes wide, as a pool of blood starts to accumulate.

Despite it all – despite the manipulation, despite the threats, despite the blackmail and pain and death and killing over the last few months – Thor sees red.

-

cxviii.

Loki can’t breathe – there is a searing pain in his shoulder, and he feels the blood underneath his head that slides sluggishly from the wound. He tries to make sense of the room, where he is – on the floor, he is on the floor and up ahead is a flash of blonde hair and Thor.

Thor lunges at Brunhilde, his killing rage clear, and she dodges, slipping the gun back into her waistband before slamming a fist into his jaw. Loki can see Thor has some training in him, maybe childhood martial arts, but he is nothing compared to Brunhilde, who moves with the experience of life and death behind her.

He hears his mother’s strained yelling, and she appears behind him, her hair falling around her face as she presses to fingers to his neck and feels his rapid pulse. ‘Breathe, breathe, Loki,’ she says, over and over, and he feels himself be pushed upwards, propped against the wall, though his head swims from the pain.

To his side, Thor is rammed into the wall, before he surges forward again, as if uncaring of the blood on his mouth, the cracking of his ribs, and Brunhilde repays him the pain by elbowing his face, knocking him backwards. She takes another breath, crouched in some stance, waiting for Thor to recover and charge at her again.

‘It went through clean, oh, Loki,’ he hears his mother saying, and her eyes are shining green before they darken with the customary berserkr raging pulsing through her.

‘No, no,’ he groans, ‘no, you can’t, get him, get him back.’ Laufey pauses, teeth clenched.

‘I’ll kill her,’ replies Laufey fiercely, ‘I’ll destroy her, but for now, I’ll do this for you.’

‘Don’t let him kill himself,’ he says in a groan, tilting his head towards the direction of the fighting, and Laufey gets the idea.

‘Restrain him,’ she yells, standing up, ‘he’s a berserkr, he’ll die trying.’ Frigga glances over, before nodding.

‘Do what you will.’

Laufey snaps at Fenrir, who stands with Hel at the back, and he comes forward. ‘Get him in a hold. Skirnir, you use pressure points?’

Skirnir nods, a hand protectively placed on Gerd’s shoulder as they both crouch by the table, before glancing warily at the woman with guns standing around the room, and walks towards Laufey. Fenrir waits until Brunhilde has dislocated Thor’s arm and drives him into the plaster before lunging forward and grabbing the other arm and twisting it behind Thor’s back.

Skirnir begins to move when Loki grunts out a ‘wait!’

Thor struggles against Fenrir’s hold, teeth bared, growling at Brunhilde, and Frigga is looking at Loki now. ‘This is Thor, isn’t it?’

Loki takes a deep breath before pushing himself off the wall and standing up, legs trembling. He grabs onto a back of some chair to steady himself, ‘let me, I can, shit, I can bring him back.’ The woman doesn’t say anything, simply watches, as he walks in front of Fenrir to face Thor.

Thor’s electric blue eyes are blown open, the iris but a ring around the pupil, and his neck strains with effort to tear himself away from Fenrir to attack Brunhilde once more. He is a terrifying sight to behold, teeth bared with blood on his mouth.

‘Thor,’ tries Loki, and gets a growl in return. ‘Thor.’ He steps closer, wary, and Thor tries to bite at him, jaw snapping, anger and homicidal rage swimming in his veins. He’s a wild animal, all of his sense gone, and Loki thinks, deliriously, that he controls this, that this is for him.

‘Thor,’ his voice comes out soft, gently, and he places his hand on Thor’s good shoulder, sliding it around the neck and tucking himself beside the man in some semblance of a one-armed hug. Thor’s teeth find their way around his throat, digging deep, but Loki tries, one last time, ‘Thor, come back to me.’ And Thor does.

-

cxix.

Thor groans, ‘Loki?’ as the adrenaline dissipates from his veins, and his eyes roll into the back of his head before going limp in Fenrir’s arms. Loki swallows, dragging a hand down his face as he tries to breathe properly. The pain comes in waves, but he can still function with it, at least he hopes so. And it is not his dominant hand, which relieves him even more.

‘You… Laufeyson,’ starts Frigga, her cigarette down to its butt, and she puts it out on the table, beside one of the contracts. ‘Sign this paper. Odin, you as well.’

Odin stares at her incredulously. ‘This is all ours, Frigga – ’ but Brunhilde’s gun is now at his face.

‘I said sign it, dear husband,’ she repeats coolly. Loki grabs the top off the pen and flips to the last page of the contract, his shaky hand leaving his signature. He pushes the wad of papers to Odin, who does the same in sharp, sure strokes. They repeat the process with the second contract.

‘Now, I shall be leaving,’ she announces, gesturing at the women. The women start to file out of the room. ‘Odin and Loki shall go with me.’ Brunhilde gestures at them with the tip of her gun and Odin reluctantly walks out of the room, Loki behind him. Frigga nods to the room once more. ‘Goodbye, Yggdrassil.’

Brunhilde closes the door behind them, and their steps disappear down the hall.

-

cxx.

Thor wakes up in a bedroom, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, his leg unable to move, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The sheets piled on top of his body are green and the bedroom small, with a wooden bedside table that had a lamp and a glass of water on top.

The bed is large, taking up most of the space, and he feels a warm body next to his. Turning his head, he finds the sheets pulled over the person with only a mess of red hair peeking out from underneath. Thor freezes. He did not remember anything after Loki being shot – oh god, Loki being shot –

A pained sound escapes his throat, and evidently wakes the redhead beside him, as the sheet is roughly pulled down and a voice, hoarse with sleeps comes out. It’s throaty but familiar and Thor wants to die.

‘Shut up, Odinson,’ snaps Freya, ‘some of us need rest after that bullshit.’

‘Where am I?’ he asks instead, propping himself against the headboard while swallowing down a screech of pain from the movement.

‘Backdoor doctor’s house,’ she replies, evidently giving up on sleeping as she stares blankly up at the ceiling. ‘He doesn’t have tons of space, so that’s why he shoves two patients together in one bed. We didn’t fuck.’

‘Thank god,’ mutters Thor, reaching for the glass of water and draining it. ‘What… what happened?’

Freya takes a shuddering breath, as if the mere thought of it was overwhelming. Thor resolutely ignores his memories, he can’t deal with thoughts of Loki right now, he can’t, he can’t –

‘You’re Fjorgyn’s kid,’ she starts, watching him.

‘My mother’s name is Jord,’ he says stiffly. She snorts.

‘Whatever makes you sleep at night, Odinson. Anyway, those women, with the guns, they were with Fjorgyn. They’re Fjorgyn’s war sisters. They’re an elite force, trained by some crazy marine bullshit, I’m sure. I’ve got nothing on them. Hardly anyone does. Combination of bulk and agility. Shit. That’s art.’

Freya pauses, before propping herself on the headboard, pillowing her back with a cushion. Thor listens silently, letting the information fall into their rightful place in his head. All of it coming together in a giant tapestry of the underworld.

‘They’re called the Valkyries. They’re the reason Asgard got so powerful so fast. Nothing like an elite unit of cold-blooded killers to help out. They were supposedly disbanded about twenty five years ago after their leader Fjorgynn passed away. Fjorgynn was the father of Frigga and her younger sister Fjorgyn. No one knows the mother, surprisingly.

‘Around the time of the disbandment, Laufey took it in her hands to launch a full scale territory assault on Asgard. Her reign lasted for an entire year but was abruptly shut down when Jotunheim’s forces had to retreat. That’s when Odin married Frigga and had twins. Maybe some remnant of the Valkyries had helped him, or Laufey’s sudden pregnancy had her retreating to a safe zone. Hell, it was probably both.’

Freya’s face twists in disgust. ‘That old man is repulsive.’ A long silence follows. ‘I guess he must have slept with Fjorgyn just before the disbandment and cast her out. She changed her name and lived out her days peacefully with you.’

‘How do you know all this?’ he asks quietly.

She laughs, a bit sardonic. ‘My longest relationship outside my brother was with Brunhilde.’ Humming, as if amused by her thoughts, she continues, ‘I think I loved her. I’m not sure. She told me things and I told her shit too. But, well, we’re both way too fucked up for something healthy, so we broke up.’

Thor takes a shuddering breath. ‘And… And Loki?’

Freya glances up at him and snorts. ‘He’s alive, stupid. He got shot in the shoulder. No one fucking dies from getting shot in the shoulder, unless it’s a goddamn shotgun.’

The relief that floods him is enough to make his eyes burn and he squeezes them shut so he won’t cry. Not in front of Freya. It’s obscene – how strongly he still feels for Loki despite… despite ‘Odinson’ shoved in their names like a thorn.

‘Though you should know – he hasn’t come back from when he disappeared with Frigga and Odin. No one’s heard a peep from them – not the bluebloods, not the news, not even Ymir’s sources. They’ve vanished, and the Valkyries have gone underground, names changed, weapons and clothing tossed. We’re just lucky we got out of there before the cops showed. Ymir’s hiding out as the building is searched. They’re only gonna find blood but not be able to trace it. Those twins – Huginn ‘n Muninn, they made sure to leave nothing behind, not even fingerprints.’

Thor turns this over in his head. Loki could be alive, simply hiding out, and he was sure Hel and Laufey were going to turn the city over, looking for him. That only left one other loose end from the meeting. ‘If Loki is underground now, who has control of Asgard?’

‘That’s the kicker,’ says Freya, ‘it’s like he knew this was gonna happen. He made Hel modify the contracts last minute, adding a clause in. Loki left Asgard behind all for you.’

-

cxxi.

The backdoor doctor is named Bruce Banner, a soft spoken man with wide hands and a tight clench to his jaw. He instructs Thor to take some over the counter pills to ease his muscles and lets him shower as he checks on Freya’s injuries.

Once he is washed and done with, Thor tries to wrap his thoughts around it. Asgard, and all the seven gangs, pledging allegiance to the Odinson who takes the throne, and that wasn’t Loki anymore – no, it fell to Thor now. Thor, construction worker and part-time electrician in the winter months, university drop out and crippled with hospital debts for his mother’s illness, who didn’t own a single suit he could fit in, and had an apartment on the shadier part of town. That middle-class Thor now was in charge of not a mob, but the mob.

He eats soup that Dr. Banner brings up to the attic room and stares blankly at Freya, trying to discern if she is joking, but her face is perfectly serious. Thor was the one they’d follow.

‘Trust me, I think it’s a stupid idea too,’ says Freya as she drinks the last of her soup. ‘But, think of it this way. I betray you? Fuckin’ Niflheim and Jotunheim down my throat, trying to slaughter me. You got loyal and powerful allies, so I’ve got no choice but to stick around. Not that I mind, actually. You’re okay. Better than most.’

‘Thanks,’ says Thor, and is surprised at how sincere it is. Freya shrugs, stretching her arms. ‘You’re a good guy, Thor. I don’t know if that’s gonna kill you or help you.’

-

cxxii.

Dr. Banner releases them after two days of bedrest and Freya hands him an obscenely fat wad of cash in payment. He thanks her, advises her not to get into more incidents, and retreats back into his house. They’re in Thor’s side of the city, middle-class and quiet, and he feels at home. He is dressed in a borrowed white shirt and the suit trousers he came in with. Freya walks beside him, also in a loose white shirt and trousers. She calls her brother and asks him to pick her up at a street corner, and they wait for him together on a park bench.

Thor waves goodbye to her, then walks home though it takes him close to an hour. He asks his neighbor to let him in and congratulates himself on the foresight of having Steve keep a spare key.

‘Man, did you just come out of a car accident?’ he asks, leaning against the entrance to Thor’s apartment. Thor shrugs, ‘accident at the site, had a stay in the hospital. Now I’m on bedrest. Thanks. Mind if I borrow your phone?’

Steve nods, tossing his cell over and Thor catches it. He sees the blonde man wave goodbye, ‘just knock on my door when you’re done,’ before disappearing into his apartment down the hall.

He calls Sif and says, ‘I’m home’ and listens to her cry and he cries too, sitting on his couch, feeling drained and empty but relieved. In an hour, both Volstagg and Sif are beside him, and they watch movies till the sun comes up and fall asleep on each other.

-

cxxiii.

Thor takes to the throne of Asgard quietly and quickly. Laufey instructs him on passing on what miscellaneous tasks to who and preserving Asgard’s already efficient system while incorporating the new gangs – such as Jotunheim and Vanaheim into a more streamlined industry.

He hands the reins of the mob to Laufey and Hel once others think it is Thor that leads them, letting them work together, and retreats to his apartment, continuing his job at the site, because his pride will not let him use the gang money to pay his mother’s hospital bills off. He wonders if he can use it to go back to university and complete his degree. Dropout after the second year… He’ll go back one day.

Over the weeks, he tells Volstagg and Sif what has happened, unwilling to hide them from the truth any longer, and he convinces Freya to let Fandral back into the fold, though she still watches warily for any sign of Fandral betraying them. Thor omits to his friends about Loki’s heritage, and tries to be as reasonable as possible.

‘I’m out, y’know. I’m out,’ says Thor to his friends, who watch him with something akin to sympathy.

‘But they won’t let you go to the cops,’ points out Volstagg. Thor takes a bite from his food, chewing thoughtfully.

‘Yeah, they won’t. They’ll kill me if they find out. But, guys, I’m not… I’m not going to the cops.’

‘Why not? They’re murderers and thieves and, Thor… you’ve changed. You’ve become sharper, harder,’ says Sif. Her mouth twists. The silence stretches between them and something like resignation draws itself into Sif's brow. ‘I… I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I… I’ll trust your judgement. I’ll stick with you.’

Thor gets up and hugs her. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ and he embraces each of his friends after, and it works, somehow. He’s out and Fandral’s out, but they’re still inexorably tied back to the underworld like an inescapable web. Thor finds he’s okay with that. For now, he makes peace with both of his lives and waits. Waits for Loki to come back to him.

-

cxxiv.

It takes three years.

Thor pays the last of Jord’s bills in the first year, and then uses the revenue he receives from Asgard to repay Jotunheim for his hospital bills and Fandral’s loan. He gives his landlord rent for six months in advance and throws himself into studying for a degree – going back to school after five years. He fucks no one during that time, and waits, for anything, news about Frigga, about Odin, about Loki.

-

cxxv.

Thor knows something is wrong the moment he steps into his apartment on Wednesday evening.

The hallway is dark and long, stretching from door to the kitchen and living room. Nothing seems out of place. There is nothing on his carpet – nothing like blood or mud or grime – nor any sound that arises from the gloom… but Thor knows.

He walks slowly, trying to muffle his steps as he approaches the opening of the hall. To the left lays his living room, the right his kitchen.

Quickly, he snaps on the light and tenses himself for any sudden movements.

None come.

There is simply a man, sitting across from him on a chair.

‘Loki,’ Thor breathes, but what he sees is entirely wrong.

Loki is dressed in dark washed jeans and his customary leather jacket, gloves resting on his thigh and a green shirt underneath. He is smiling, his face soft, and he looks beautiful in the light cast from outside. Thor drops his groceries, and tries to breathe, because it has been so long and here he is, sitting in Thor’s living room, as if nothing has happened.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Loki, and his voice is deep and low and familiar that Thor makes an involuntary sound of pain because, fuck, Loki is here and real.

‘Oh, fuck, Thor,’ and Loki is standing up now, eyes wide in surprise, and he comes up to him, embracing him, solid and warm and pressed right against Thor – every inch of his torso lined up. Thor hugs him tightly, burying his face into Loki’s throat, forgetting for a moment that they’re both Odinsons, and maybe this isn’t okay, because he doesn’t care.

‘God, you’re so emotional over everything,’ sighs Loki in his ear, rubbing Thor’s back, leaving kisses on his jaw, and hums when Thor doesn’t pull away. ‘So, you’ll still have me.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Thor replies in a rush, ‘god, you’re alive, and you’re healthy, and – ’

‘I’m sorry,’ repeats Loki, pulling away, looking at him. ‘I’m sorry I’m back.’

‘What?’ Thor scrunches his brow. Loki pulls away and gestures for Thor to sit on the couch. He does. Loki takes the seat on the love seat perpendicular to the other, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket and flipping it through his fingers.

‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you, but I couldn’t help myself,’ starts Loki, his voice even, and Thor prepares himself. ‘After you handed Asgard to Laufey and Hel, I’ve taken back the throne. This city is no longer with the All-Father, but me, the Trickster.’ A twist of his lips. ‘You didn’t notice because the mob works on a chain of command, and only the top know who I am, while those further down, such as Fandral, simply know their own boss.’

‘You’ve been here for three years?’ asks Thor slowly.

Loki smiles thinly. ‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve only now shown your face to me? After three fucking years.’

‘It seems so. I apologize. I was resolved that I would never see you, again,’ replies the man evenly, casually, and Thor starts. ‘Thor, we’re not… compatible.’

Thor feels a headache coming on – his anger and confusion and relief slamming together in his brain. Pushing it away, he says, ‘how did you escape?’

He watches Loki toss the cigarette into the air, letting it cartwheel back into his palm, eyes half-hooded in thought. ‘Frigga in the driver’s seat. Odin in the passenger’s seat. Me in the backseat, beside Brunhilde. We drove north, out of the city, into the desert.

‘Frigga was angry. She spoke like she was talking about the weather though. Her sons dead or gone because of her husband. The disappearance of her sister years ago, because of Odin. How Frigga could contact each Valkyrie except one. Her own sister. Fjorgyn turned into Jord and went so underground that even the underworld had no idea where she was.’

Sighing, he squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Frigga shot Odin first, personally. Dropped his body off with Brunhilde to take care of it. I was shoved, bleeding shoulder and all, into the passenger seat. We kept driving. I thought I was going to get shot too.’ His voice trembles before evening out again.

‘We drove for an hour. She asked me if I loved you. I told her I did. She said berserkrs can only be calmed if someone with pure, unaltered love calls them back. Her sister was like you. And she always had to bring Fjorgyn back. I don’t know if that’s true. But it saved me.

‘See, Frigga wanted everything to go to you. The only memory left of her sister. The only evidence. She was broken up and done with everything. Her family was slaughtered, her husband a traitor, her income of Asgard being transferred to the likes of me. But she let me go on the pain of death that you become the heir and king.’

‘But before that even happened, before she even came into the room, you had me as your heir,’ says Thor. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew she was coming.’

‘Hel phoned me that day, and told me she had spotted Frigga with Brunhilde,’ replies Loki, ‘and when a person is out with a Valkyrie, they’re out for blood. I suspected I would die. I needed something. An alternative. I chose you.’

‘And now you’re here,’ ends Thor, lamely, feeling uncertain.

‘I shouldn’t be. She dropped me off in the desert and drove off. It took all night. I walked back.’ He swallows, gaze flicking away. ‘But I came back. One of Surtr’s men found me. Took me to my mother.

‘Later, it soon became clear that either Frigga had vanished into thin air or left the city only weeks after she learned you were the heir. She had nothing to stay for. Brunhilde seems to have fabricated a vacation for Odin. He’ll be discovered dead on some beautiful island. Or maybe he already has.’ Loki shuts his jaw with a click. He stews in the silence, before pocketing the cigarette and standing up.

Immediately, Thor stands up too. The war is over, the players dispersed or dead. The king at his throne. His subjects at his feet. Only Thor is left for Loki. Only Thor is the last remaining piece on the board and he is too important to let go. He wants to sigh as much as he wants to punch Loki in the gut – ‘Took you long enough.’

Loki glares at him, ‘my absence should have been permanent.’

‘But it’s not. You’re here,’ reminds Thor patiently. He approaches Loki, and Loki lets him be wrapped up in his arms, his forehead resting against Thor’s shoulder.

‘I want you in my life,’ says Thor fiercely. ‘I love you.’

‘You’re doing so well, you’re months away from graduating,’ says the other, voice quiet, ‘you have your friends, and the city’s underworld is finally under control… Are you sure you want me here?’ And it dawns on Thor what the problem is – that Loki is afraid he’ll screw their lives up once more. That this will end in another blaze of bloodshed and gunfire. That Loki ran away so Thor could be safe and away from the mess of the underworld.

Loki is looking at him, his face open and vulnerable, and Thor wants to kiss him shut, distract him from these questions. Distract him with sex and heat and violence – but they’ve done this so many times now. To themselves. To each other. And look where it’s gotten them. It has been three years. He feels old – with age, with experience – and he knows he can never go through that again. Thor resolves himself.

‘Yes, look, sometimes, I don’t agree with what you do, and fuck, I still… I still want this, even after the whole Odin shit.’ Thor fumbles for the words. ‘I’m okay with you. I’m okay with you being where you are and me being where I am, and you just… you just need to meet me halfway.’

There are bags under Loki’s bright, green eyes, as if he hasn’t slept for days, and he is not as put together as he thought – his skin paler than usual, his hair longer and messier, his shirt crumpled. Yet, he’s still stunning, beautiful, in the open expression on his face, and Thor lets Loki kiss him, gentle, languid, careful.

It doesn’t last long – Loki traces the seam of Thor’s lips with his tongue, worrying at the bottom lip till Thor is opening up and pressing back. Slowly, Loki pulls away and watches with those poison green eyes. ‘You’re mine.’

‘I’m yours,’ replies Thor, ‘and you’re mine in return. Just – meet me halfway.’

Loki flutters his eyes closed, takes a breath. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘okay.’

And when Thor reaches to kiss him, Loki does.

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