I don't own Avengers, and subsequently neither Loki, Thor, nor any character of Marvel/Norse Mythos origin, and any products, businesses, or companies mentioned are purely for the sake of keeping with the Marvel Cinematic Universe depiction. My writing is for no monetary value, and is purely for entertainment purposes. Any likeness of original characters is purely coincidental.
Some liberties have been taken with this, for the sake of plot. Set after Avengers and before Dark World. Doesn't really flow between them smoothly, but it's fan fiction – I'm allowed to screw around a bit.
Anyway, please enjoy. If I completely botch one detail or another, let me know and I'll see if I can't do some rewriting to fix it.
*Edit: 3/1/2015 – Aside from cutting out/editing a lot of the author notes, a few changes to conversation have occurred, some changes in action have been implemented, and other minor (and arguably major) details have been edited. Otherwise very much the same story, but please read this again before moving on.
Chapter 1
He was not used to having to catch his breath.
Not that he had never experienced it; he had had plenty of adventurous undertakings that usually ended with people less than happy with him. Mischief was his thing, after all, and he enjoyed that moment of well, it's been fun, but I should probably make myself scarce now. He would escape with a laugh, sometimes with Thor by his side, caught up in watching his brother pull one prank or another, and the run felt almost as good as seeing the look on the faces of his poor victims.
Not this, though. This was the kind of running where you were not allowed to catch your breath, because the moment you did, it would be your last. This he had most certainly not experienced, and the burning of his lungs and dryness of his throat were an agony he had not known.
Really, he had hardly run fifteen minutes. A mortal body truly was incredibly weak, and certainly not made for this kind of stress.
Loki dove for an alleyway, shoving a group of men aside in his rush. Policemen and civilians (and had he heard something about the military being brought in?) were not far behind, and everywhere he turned someone shouted or cowered or screamed…It was not exactly conducive to escaping his pursuers.
There were plenty of them, too, he was sure, toting weapons and shouting things his gift for tongues could not always keep up with. There was no doubt that they were angry, very angry, and he did not dare stop running.
It did not help that it had not been long since his plans for Midgard had been foiled by the Avengers; some time had passed, but buildings and roads were still being repaired, crowding the already congested streets of Manhattan. Stark Tower in the distance still looked to be damaged, but Loki could not say for sure given the fact that he was running blindly, and it was currently quite early in the morning. Not much light around (except those on the street and the buildings and windows…Midgardians really seemed the hate the dark), but plenty of people nonetheless. Half of them probably a part of the crowd chasing him down, though he did not dare try to confirm that.
He had not long before been brought back to Asgard a prisoner. Whispers from spectators and Thor's maddening mixture of emotions had done little to help with his mood. Taking Midgard had been an easy undertaking, he had been sure, but somewhere something went wrong. Immediately led to a cell, he had waited momentarily as guards removed his chains. Silence had taken over, save for what their eyes communicated to him. When the iron bit was finally removed from his mouth, he had flashed them all a wicked smile to add to their fears, just to mess with them, only to have it wiped clean off by the visit of one Frigga.
For a moment, he had felt his heart drop. Adoptive mother or not, she considered him her son, and he had failed her miserably. It had been the first time she had seen him since everything had gone so wrong, the first glimpse of a son she thought dead, and there he was, a criminal to be shamed. He felt so low, so defeated all of a sudden, just because of this woman.
She had cried silently, save for a few words. "Oh, my son," she had said. "I am so happy you are alive."
And that was it. He could not say anything back. He could not even look at her, he was so ashamed. His father, his brother…no one's opinion had mattered to him after he had fallen; after what he had gone through between the branches of Yggdrasil, how could it? His experiences there had changed him, changed how he thought, how he saw the world and himself. Frigga's influence was something he had not considered to be large enough to affect him as it did.
After her visit, he had quietly contemplated his actions with a bit of numbness he had not known since his failed suicide. Some form of regret sat like a weight in his stomach, though he knew not whether it was regret for his actions or regret for having them fail so miserably in the end. He stewed angrily when he thought about the moments he had fallen to one Avenger or another, particularly the insulting way the green beast had utterly defeated him, and thought solemnly about the moment he looked over the destruction of the Midgardian city, and the faith naive Thor still held that maybe they could fix it together. He wondered if his emotions then had not been real – they had felt fake at the time (he had used them to drop Thor's guard, after all), but as he thought about it, he found himself pitying the feeble attempts the mortals took to defend themselves, if they were not too busy running in terror. Really, he should have expected it to look like that. The mortals revered them as gods for flinging around a little magic or strength because they had nothing in comparison. They were so pathetically weak…except for those few who called themselves the Avengers, and managed to defeat an entire army of Chitauri.
When he thought about it, he figured he did feel pity for those mortals in that moment. He just did not care. It was their fault for being weak, anyway.
He had not bothered to keep track of the passage of time, but eventually he was brought from his cell to be given a proper audience with the Allfather. Frigga met him once more along the way, not for words, or at least the verbal kind. An embrace filled with the warmth of her own magic spoke for her, and her stern yet loving gaze trapped him in that feeling of embarrassment that made him avert his eyes. As they parted, he realized her magic was imbued with a message of sorts, likely one reminding him of the love she held for him, and he determined ignoring it the better option; it could be deciphered later, when he felt like hearing it. She had not followed him inside of Odin's hall, but her magic had, and despite his determination to ignore its warmth, it had been all he could do to keep the reminders it provided him from showing on his face. He had to face the aging man with pride, not shame, because to fail to do so would be to accept that he was wrong, to name that form of regret nibbling at his insides.
Unacceptable.
He had half listened out of defiance, concerning himself more with the cuffs around his wrists. They restricted his magic, and he could feel it there behind Frigga's, but could not touch it. It occurred to him after a moment that it was also the first time Odin had seen him since he had fallen from the Bifrost, and, curious, looked up to see what expression he was holding. Their last true conversation had been the revelation that he was a monster, and that anger and pain still boiled beneath his skin.
There had been a single moment of silence when he really looked at him, searching for the disgust in Odin's eyes that should have been there. Instead, the Allfather's expression was one of schooled disappointment, and something else Loki never quite had a chance to figure out. When that brief moment had passed, he delivered his judgment upon him.
Thor had said he would be facing harsh ruling, and he had fully expected to be robbed of his power and stuffed in a cell for an unknown amount of time, and probably tortured in one way or another to atone for his sins. That, or left alone entirely with nothing to chase away the boredom except for the prisoners he could see from his own cell. Neither were very appealing scenarios, but they beat a death sentence by far (one he likely had Frigga to thank for arguing against). However, Odin had seen apparently great results from Thor's time in Midgard, and decided the same should do his other son well.
Banished to Midgard. As a mortal.
For a moment, that failed to register in his mind. Odin was known to judge punitively (Thor's punishment had been a fine example of that), but hearing those impossible words had stunned him. The mortals knew him, knew him to be the cause of their misfortune. To send him there was as ludicrous as sending Thor to Jotunheim after all he had done.
He had not the time to think much further, let alone speak on it, before his wrists and magic had suddenly been released from their binds…only to be sealed away by Odin's own power. Fear stole his breath; he could feel nothing, not of his, not of Frigga's, not of the magic that lingered around anything. Dark energy then enveloped him, a shadowy display that did not take senses for magic to understand, and he was flung away. When he had hit the ground, he had hit hard, and it had taken him several minutes to overcome the nauseating feeling of being thrown between realms with not the body to handle it.
He had become aware of voices and noises that had not been in the Allfather's chamber shortly after nearly gagging up the contents of his stomach. When he had looked up, dread had washed over him. Of all the places on Earth to be banished to, he had chosen here. Perhaps it was a mistake on the old man's part; he had already used so much energy to send Thor to Midgard not long ago, what with the Bifrost gone. He was amazed that he even had enough left to accomplish this.
Or, maybe it was not a mistake, and Odin had truly sent him to his death.
Needless to say, panic rose from those who recognized him, and from others who, after facing a war with an alien race, did not feel safe with someone suddenly appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the street. And that brought him here; running through Manhattan with a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mob somewhere behind him.
A loud crack of a gun accompanied a pain that suddenly tore through his upper left arm just before he could round the corner. He stumbled, falling into a door that gave with his weight. He found himself on the ground floor of an apartment building; quiet, somewhat run down, but enough to accommodate those who decided to live there. Lying on the tile for a moment, the mischief-maker pressed his hand to the wound, drawing back to find it very red.
Screw it, he figured. He was wounded and tired. This place would have to do.
Loki picked himself up and ran for the stairs. He only went up a few flights; too few, and he would probably be found by the first people who happened to realize he ended up in here. Too many, and he would be found by his footsteps on the stairs. They were not carpeted.
Three flights sounded relatively safe, and he went straight for his usual course of action when it came to locked doors – magic. Of course, that did nothing; Odin had taken that from him. Trying door handles as he went down the hall did not get him much further. Each was locked, and he did not dare try to force one open for fear of making too much noise. At the same time, he tried to stanch the bleeding of his arm. He did not need any more of a trail for them to follow. Not that they were not already following close behind him as it was.
He really missed his magic; none of this would be a problem right now if he could just throw one or two illusions around or hop to another, safer location.
Of course, that would defeat the purpose of his punishment, would it not?
At the end of the hall, he found another flight of steps. He debated about using them to exit the building and throw off his pursuers, but decided he would have far less luck back on the crowded streets of the city. The narrow sidewalks left little room to dodge, and there had been a couple of close calls with Midgard's transportation methods during his run that reminded him of his sudden mortality. So up the stairs he went, and so, too, did his pursuers.
Panic set in for a moment when he heard the shouts coming from below, and he nearly stumbled over the last step. The loud clang of his foot against the metal staircase as he launched himself down the hall surely alerted them that someone was around. Noise be damned, he needed somewhere, anywhere to-
A handle turned fully under his hand. He stared dumbfounded at it for a moment, but shook his relief and amazement off and slipped inside. It was dark, but there was enough ambient light to keep him from tripping over any of the furnishings. Another door directly across the room came to his attention, partially open. A risk, perhaps – if they discovered he had come in here, he might box himself in by going into it – but having another door between himself and them sounded far more appealing. Beyond it he went, closing it behind him quietly.
He wanted to collapse, desperately wanted to sit and catch his breath. He got halfway there, sliding down the door, before movement caught his eyes. His heart pounding loudly in his chest became that much more apparent, his breath strangely frozen in contrast.
Across the room a mortal girl shot up in her bed, startled out of sleep by his appearance. There was a long, utterly gripping moment where he could see the panic and fear set flame to her eyes. Adrenaline he would remember to thank, for it was the only thing that helped him realize with enough time that she was prepared to shout. He quickly crossed the room and cupped his hand over her mouth as gently as he dared. He would not get a second chance if she ruined this one.
"Please, don't shout," he pleaded in a whisper, his voice coming out far more winded and desperate than he wanted. Apparently his silver tongue had vanished with his power, but he decided to care about that later. "I just need to hide; No harm will come to you, I give you my word."
He was aware of the part of himself that scoffed at the thought of him giving his word to anyone, but he resolved that he was more than prepared to keep it if she kept silent.
A pair of blue eyes stared him down, now with something more akin to curiosity than trepidation, and he realized belatedly that she had had her hand poised to retaliate beside his head. 'Girl' was also improper – it was a small woman who weighed him with her gaze. In the dark she had appeared younger. Her eyes betrayed her age, though, close as he was to her now.
The hand returned to her side as she searched his eyes, a crinkle in her brow and a slight tilt to her head indicating some kind of question, though one she did not ask. A slow nod followed, and he dared a small twitch of a smile in response.
Loud footsteps and voices resounded outside, and fear gripped him once again. His head whipped back to the door, hearing the handle of the main one rattle beneath the less-than-subtle hand of which ever person had followed him this far (which was likely all of them).
A hand came down lightly on his back, startling him. The woman had stood from her bed, and quickly pointed to another door along the far wall, giving him a shove in its direction. He did as he was silently instructed, ducking into the small closet while trying to avoid bumping his head on the shelf too low for his stature. The door closed on him before he could turn around to reach for it, and suddenly he was shrouded in darkness. He sunk to the floor, needing the rest, but did not dare breathe for fear of being discovered.
This whole business of his heart pounding out the rhythm of fright while holding his breath, involuntarily or otherwise, was beginning to get quite old and repetitive.
The bedroom door opened following the pounding of feet inside the apartment, and the woman shrieked suddenly in response. Too many voices flooded into the room to keep track of, but he did hear something of 'search the whole building' and 'don't let him get away' among them. He felt pathetic, cowering in a closet. The desire to jump out with a smile and a reminder of just who they were dealing with was hard to fight, except that who they were dealing with was currently defenseless. That thought kept him still.
"What the hell are you people in my apartment for?!" the woman shouted, livid at the continued intrusions. "Get out!"
"Ma'am, we have reason to believe-" a man started.
"If you people don't leave in ten seconds, I'm calling the police!" she interrupted.
"But we're helping them!" came an offended response.
"I don't care what you're doing – GET OUT!"
There was a thump as something soft connected with another form; he did not know what had been thrown, but it did not sound very effective. The grunt in response was minimal.
"A very dangerous man may have come this way," the first voice cut in more calmly. "We believe he is the terrorist responsible for the attack on the city, ma'am."
There was a moment of silence save for the sound of others running through the apartment building in search of him. For a terrifying second he thought his end would come – the woman may not have recognized him before, but with the mention of the incident, she was sure to connect a few dots. What mortal would not want him dead?
"…A dangerous man," she started quietly. A pause, a deep breath from someone, his heart pounding too loudly in his ears (damn, that was annoying!), and then she continued, "that, if Tony Stark is to be believed, was taken back to whatever planet he came from, correct?"
"Yes, we totally believe the rich weapons guy," another man responded sarcastically. "I'll believe what I saw with my own eyes, and we definitely saw the guy. The police running around should be proof enough."
"The police are always running around, lately," the woman retorted smartly. "And I'm partial to a guy who, oh, I don't know, maybe helped save a number of your asses."
"Regardless of what Stark did or said," the calmer man from before interjected, "I do believe we saw the man. He may have come in here. It looks like he's been running the halls, judging by the blood, an-"
"And I suppose that gives you permission?" she interrupted, anger returning to color her voice. "You come in here on a 'maybe,' barge in on a woman in her bedroom on a guess that someone came in here?!"
"Would you just shut up and let us-!"
"OUT!"
He heard another thump of something and footsteps retreating a pace or two, accompanied by an offended yelp. Apparently she scored another hit.
"We're very sorry to have disturbed you," someone said reluctantly, but quickly, much to his companions' disdain if the protests were anything to go by.
"Damned right you are!" she returned in full force. "I should have tased the lot of you!"
"Have a good night, ma'am."
"It's four in the morning!"
He heard a few more exchanges as they retreated from the bedroom and back toward the front door, but he could not make out the words as he gasped for the breath he had deprived himself of. He tried to keep the volume down, just in case, but everything sounded far too loud in his ears. He clamped his hand over his mouth as a precaution.
A door slammed, probably the front, but it made him jump nonetheless. One set of footsteps returned to the bedroom, and the door clicked shut behind them. They were light, quiet, definitely the woman's (hopefully the woman's), and moved around the room for several minutes while the sounds of his pursuers disappeared. Before long, she returned to the front of the closet.
Light filled his hiding place as the door opened, and Loki's heart leapt with relief.
At least for a moment.
"Alright, out of the closet," the woman commanded, pointing a small black device at him at arm's length. Not a firearm, no, but her stance made it look dangerous, and mortals had a way of disguising weapons. "Slowly. Keep your hands up. Do anything funny and I'll put 50,000 volts through you."
He did as he was told, cautiously stepping out of the closet with his hands raised, carefully taking each step so that she would not feel the need to use her weapon. He took note that she had taken care to light the room, which made it far easier for her to see him, and likewise for him to see her. The space was relatively clean, save for a couple of her pillows, no longer on her bed but on the floor (probably what she had thrown, as they would be mostly harmless, but effective enough to get her point across).
He was backed up against the wall now as they silently stared at each other. Well, she stared, seeming to look not at him but through him, as though she was reading him; Loki found everything around her more interesting every few seconds. He had failed to notice earlier that she was indecently dressed, what with the lack of lighting in the room. Now he could plainly see that she was in nothing but a small shirt and otherwise essential wear, and while any other time he would probably drink the sight in, this morning had him rather off. Must be something to do with the sudden 'I am mortal' thing, because he felt his cheeks redden somewhat in mild embarrassment, like he was a child again, catching sight of something he should not. It was appropriate not to look at her anyway; being indecent to his helper would hardly help him in the end.
"So you are the idiot who tried to take over the world."
Appropriate, Loki, he reminded himself. Be appropriate.
"…'Idiot' is a little harsh, don't you think?" he replied, casting her an offended look.
"Actually, I think it's pretty light. Dumbass and raving lunatic fall somewhere in there, too," she answered in an annoyed tone.
"Perhaps it wasn't the brightest of ideas…" he amended. Better he agree than argue, lest she use that device on him.
"No shit," she agreed. "Earth is huge; it's nothing like taking over a country or kingdom."
Loki stared at her for a moment, holding his tongue against a biting comeback. He had been powerful, had so much more strength than any pathetic mortal could ever hope to have. Had he not miscalculated...
"Did you really think you could do it alone?" she continued before his thoughts could go any further. She intended to question him, it seemed, which was better than throwing him back to the mob he had just escaped. Much better, really, but definitely not at the top of his list of things to do. Those positions were occupied by get some rest and calm your stupid heart already, you fool.
"At the time, I had an army," he reminded her. "I was hardly alone."
"You were the one at the top, though," she rebuked. "You'd have been ruling alone."
"By that logic, then, I suppose you'd be correct."
"And that's exactly what makes you a dumbass for trying," she concluded. "There's more than seven billion people here. Even if you had won, that's a pretty big number to keep in check, even with your friends. Besides, 'whoopee, I beat a bunch of mortals' isn't exactly something to brag about. Not that mortals are push-overs, mind you."
Loki got the distinct impression that the woman was going to throw several demeaning remarks his way before the sun rose. But that was good, he reminded himself, because he was not running, nor was she trying to use that weapon on him.
"Resistance would have been quite large, you imagine?" he questioned.
"I'm sorry, but wasn't there a mob of gun-toting civilians on your trail not too long ago?"
Right. Dumb question.
A silence fell between them, giving Loki a little time to breathe. He was not sure what to make of the woman before him; there were the actions earlier that made him think her helpful, but then there was the questioning and the weapon that made him wonder if he should not bolt out through the door. Their conversation currently was not doing him any favors, because his responses had been much more reactionary than thoughtful, and that was worrisome. Not having his magic was one thing, but not being able to rely on his silver tongue was another matter entirely.
"…So, how much longer can you keep that arm up, Mr. Alien?" she suddenly asked, giving him a pointed look.
Pulled from his thoughts, it took a moment for anything beyond 'alien' to register (and how insulted he felt by the misnomer). When he finally processed her inquiry and followed her line of sight to his arm, he understood. Whether it had been the adrenaline or simply being distracted, he did not know, but he had completely forgotten about the wound until that moment. No longer able to keep the one arm raised, he gave up and dropped them both, wrapping his hand around the wound to stave off some of the pain. The woman gave him a look he could not quite read, but refrained from taking any action against him for not keeping his hands up.
"That had been blissfully forgotten, thank you," he grumbled in response.
He tried to look at the wound better, now that it was bright and he was not more concerned with his escape, but most of it was to the back of his upper arm, and he could not fathom trying to move it that much at the moment. His armor had been stripped from him, and what was left behind did nothing more than properly clothe him. The magic he so desperately missed could not be reached to aid in healing, either. This was a pain he would have to suffer through.
"Get yourself in the bathroom before you bleed all over my carpet," the woman instructed, leaving him blinking back at her in confusion. "Let me get some clothes on and I'll take a look at that."
It took Loki several moments to process her sudden change in attitude, which prompted the woman to raise an eyebrow at him and gesture impatiently. With a numb and confused nod, he finally left the room. The small bathroom just outside of the door and to the left was not very big, but it seemed to serve its purpose. The woman herself was small, so the size was probably just fine for her, but he wondered briefly how she thought she was going to follow him in there to treat his arm.
And he wondered why she intended to treat his arm. She had seemed completely prepared to do him in herself up until the pain had come back to him. Distracted as he was, he had not noticed any expression that would give him a hint as to why, and truly she did not intend to help the man responsible for so much death and destruction…
"Take a seat on the edge of the tub," the woman instructed as she came in behind him. She now sported pants and a less revealing shirt. "I have to get behind the door here."
He hesitated for a moment, but a further prompt from her got him sitting right where she had instructed, if not somewhat awkwardly. The tub's edge was a bit short for his height, and with little room to stretch his legs, he found his knees a little too far up. The woman could swing the door away from the wall, though, which revealed a small closet. From there, she grabbed a clear plastic case. Its contents appeared to be medical.
She sat on the closed lid of the toilet with the case in her hands for a moment as she looked him over. A crooked frown appeared on her face and she tapped the box a few times in thought before speaking.
"The sleeve of your shirt is in the way, and it looks like it's not loose enough to roll up over your shoulder," she explained. "I can cut it off so you can at least keep the shirt, since I don't own anything that would fit you in the slightest, or you can risk opening up that wound more and just take it off."
Would the fabric give to a mortal instrument, he wondered, looking down at the long sleeves of the green shirt. It was Asgardian clothing; not armor, no, but mortal fabric it was not.
He told her as such, and that he was reluctant to move his arm.
"…I'll try some scissors," she said after a moment. "Something got through it, apparently. If that doesn't work, then I'll see if we can figure something else out."
She left for her room and returned with a small pair of scissors a moment later. Standing to his side as he sat (how she managed to stand in the space between the tub and the toilet, he was not sure), she carefully took the blades to the seam where the sleeve met the shoulder. It took a few squeezes, but the thread did eventually give way. Loki was a little disappointed that the fabric was so easily rendered, but figured it had lost any strength it may have had when he had been stripped of his power.
That was something else he was not quite sure about. He was not Asgardian but Jotun; that the Allfather could rob him of everything that made him a Frost Giant was an eye opener. He had certainly done something to suppress his nature before, at least the physical aspects of it, but obviously he had not been able to completely erase his heritage. Taking Thor's power from him was easy enough, but Odin's son Loki was not. It made him wonder just how expansive Odin's power was.
He wondered briefly if contact with the Casket would still reveal his nature now.
"So what should I call you?"
He blinked blankly back at her for a moment, pulled out of his thoughts once again.
"I mean, I could keep calling you 'idiot'," she continued, a tone of sarcasm in her voice. "'Alien Mastermind' seems to be a popular reference as well."
"Loki," he replied, "is just fine, thank you."
"Loki…" she repeated, letting his name roll off of her tongue. It was strangely familiar to hear her speak his name, but he brushed that off as a result of the relief he felt just being able to rest. "So what's the big bad Loki doing hiding in my apartment instead of fighting to take over the world again?"
He could not answer for a time, embarrassed and ashamed of his loss of power, of his loss of everything. The woman waited patiently, working still at his clothing. He was grateful for her silence. It appeared that she understood when her comments were unneeded.
"…This is my punishment," he finally explained. "For my crimes, my power was taken from me. I am nothing but mortal now."
"…Nothing wrong with being mortal, you know," she said in her own defense.
"Unless all of the human race desires your death," he corrected her with a note of bitterness. "And you find yourself dropped in the very center of that hatred."
She gave him a pointed look.
"Technically, that's your own fault," she reminded him. "Whatever reason you may have had to do what you did, you will not find very many people willing to forgive you. A lot of innocent people died that day, and a lot more are still suffering."
He did not try to defend himself from that statement.
"Can you lift your arm a bit?" she asked, changing topics suddenly. "I'm almost done with the sleeve."
He did so, but only after finding something suitable to prop it up on, which left him standing so that he could grip the bar above the tub. Watching as she worked carefully at the fabric was somewhat fascinating; she was gentle, but efficient, and calm in the face of the blood and who she was helping. Despite now having to reach up (she barely made it past his collarbone), she never let the scissors touch his flesh, and took care to avoid the wound below her cut. It was as if she was practiced in the art.
With a final snip, he felt the tool come free of the fabric, and she motioned for him to sit down again. He did so gratefully, feeling a little lightheaded and a bit more tired than he was used to. His wound throbbed from the small effort, and he was not getting the feeling back in his fingers as quickly as he liked. Flexing his hand did little to help.
"I'm going to roll this sleeve off, so I apologize if it hurts your arm a bit more," she warned him.
His arm was the epitome ofpain, so he hardly needed the warning, but she flipped the uppermost part of the sleeve down over the wound without aggravating it much more than it already was. After she had gotten past it, the rest of the sleeve came off easily enough, and she discarded it in the waste basket behind her.
Unfortunately, there was now nothing to impede the flow of blood from his wound, and red droplets fell onto the lighter surface of her tub. She reached around him and turned the knob to let the water flow in a quiet stream.
"Let me get a washcloth to clean this up," she told him, standing once again. "Keep your arm over the tub so the blood doesn't end up all over the place."
So that was why she insisted on doing this in such a small room, he realized, watching as the blood pooled in a growing dot; easy clean up. That, and now that he thought about it, the impromptu seating gave her a good angle to work from, as he sat just a little lower than she. Essentially everything she needed was in the little closet behind the door (including the rag she now pulled from there), and it was well lit.
Smart.
"So this more than likely will hurt," she alerted, soaking the rag under the running water.
"I realize that," he replied, grimacing slightly at the thought.
"They shot you, right?" she questioned, looking over the wound as she squeezed some of the water from the cloth.
"You have to ask?"
She rolled her eyes in response.
"Whoever it was had terrible aim, so it probably wasn't an officer. You should count yourself lucky."
He wanted to refute the use of the word lucky, but was too busy biting the inside of his cheek as she rung the rag out over the wound. The warm water stung.
"…Used to healing quickly?" she asked after a moment.
He could not tell if she wanted to hear the pain in his voice, or was trying to distract him by making him talk. It was likely the latter (she did not seem the type to enjoy another's pain), but he really did not wish to speak when he was already having trouble holding back a number of expressions.
"Typically," he finally replied, gaining a moment of relief when she turned to rinse out the cloth, "something like this would have been nothing."
"Being mortal probably changes that."
That he did not need reminding of.
She washed the wound for a time, and asked him no more questions. Whether she had noticed he would rather not talk, or simply became too focused on her work, he did not know, but was thankful nonetheless. There were moments where he hissed in pain, and she apologized quietly, but did not relent. Eventually, she decided there was little more she could do to clean it with water, and produced a bottle from the small closet instead.
"This is used a lot on injuries here," she started, pouring the contents of the black bottle onto a white cotton pad. "It isn't pleasant, but it does the job. Technically speaking, you should be getting stitches for this, but since going to the hospital is out of the question, and I don't have the proper supplies to do it myself, we'll need to use a fair bit of this."
The water had not been pleasant, but she had not used such words to warn him of that. There was a sharp smell to the liquid now coating the cotton pad, and coupled with her words, Loki understood pain was in store for him.
He was starting to rethink what type of person she was.
For a moment, the liquid was soothingly cool against his marred skin, making him wonder what she had meant, but then it began to bubble and it felt like he was being stabbed with a number of needles several times over. He flinched away with an embarrassing yelp.
"Bloody Hel, that hurts!" he exclaimed through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to wrap his free hand around the wound.
"Never met a bottle of peroxide?"
"No," he replied in distaste. "And I hope I never again do."
To that, she laughed, and he suddenly felt as though she were looking at him as she would a stubborn sibling or a young child. He cast his gaze downward in an attempt to hide whatever must have shown on his face, though she made no mention of it.
"Does it sting?" she asked as she soaked a fresh cotton pad.
"I think I did a rather genuine interpretation of it doing just that a moment ago."
"Then it's working," she chuckled in response to the bitterness in his tone. "That's something of a saying when it comes to disinfectants. If it doesn't sting, then the stuff is no good. It's killing anything that could infect the wound."
"…So I have to deal with it," he gathered, glaring at the cotton in her hand.
"Part of being a mortal fugitive, unfortunately."
She gave him a minute to prepare himself for the pain again, and once he gave her a curt nod, she went back to disinfecting the wound. He gritted his teeth through it this time around.
Her medical case seemed to have something for every wound. She produced a roll of gauze and several more cotton pads from it to wrap up the injury, but not before slathering some other kind of disinfectant on it. This one did not sting like the other, however, and she was gentle in applying it.
Watching her carefully wind the wrappings around his arm reminded him that he was undeserving of her kindness. Her actions were confusing; he had not expected benevolence of any nature when he found himself back on Midgard. Beyond the request for silence, to allow him to hide, he had asked for none of this, and she had every right to deny him any of it and throw him back to the streets of the city.
"Why?" he asked suddenly, looking directly at her.
She paused for a moment to catch his gaze, but continued when she questioned back, "Why what?"
What did she mean 'why what'? Was it not obvious?
"Why did you not give me up?"
There was silence as she finished, cutting off the remaining gauze and securing what was on his arm with a tug and a couple of small metal clips.
"…Answer me something first," she replied in lieu of an answer. "Do you regret what you did?"
Regret. That was a thought he had played with earlier, one he was avoiding truly analyzing. 'Yes' would be the answer she should want to hear; any less than something appropriate, and she might find reason to use the weapon she had threatened him with earlier and retract her help. But there was some merit in answering truthfully, too, and this surprise of a woman might just prefer that.
So silver-tongued Loki tried the truth, for once, and replied, "That's something I have yet to figure out."
He found her staring right up at him, gauging his answer. It was suddenly unnerving to hold her gaze, as he was not used to someone who was not Odin or Heimdall having one that could make him feel as though any answer were incorrect. It made him feel small, and open, like a book free to be deciphered.
"…Good enough."
That reply was not entirely what he was expecting.
"How do you mean?"
"You were honest," she answered. "Let's say I'm one of those naïve people who likes to believe everyone has something good in them."
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," he scoffed. "I bring a war to your world, attempt to subjugate your entire people, and you tell me I have something good in me?"
"Let me rephrase that," she amended, taking on a different tone that made him listen. "I value your honest answer to a question most would choose to lie in response to. Truth has some synonymy to good, and that you revealed your own conflict with that question leads me to believe I am not entirely wrong."
An appropriate response to that failed to come to mind, and left him instead with his mouth parted in disbelief.
"People usually have reasons for doing things, and I do not think you are an exception to that. What you did is not going to change, but if you can regret, and you are still alive, then there is a chance that you can do something good one day to make up for it."
Still, words evaded him.
"Besides, this whole 'being mortal' thing is your punishment," she added. "I'm not letting you get out of it through an untimely death."
Loki looked at her in disbelief for a moment longer, before dropping his head and shaking it mildly. Really, he had run into a strange woman; of all the mortal dwellings to have found refuge in, it had to be here. He wondered if this was not by fate's design.
He contemplated her words as she cleaned the rest of the remaining blood from his hands, but found himself weary of thinking. Best to just go with it, he figured, doubtful of a better place to be in his situation.
When she finished, the woman left to find something suitable to prop his arm in, certain that she had once had a sling somewhere around her residence. He stood from his seat along the side of the tub, eyeing her work once again, when suddenly his vision vanished before him. He reached out to find purchase on something, only to grab nothing but air, and a bout of dizziness sent him to his knees.
"Whoa, hey, careful!" the woman reprimanded him as she quickly returned to the small room. She must have been nearby when he collapsed, and had abandoned her search. Quickly, her hands were on his chest, keeping him upright, though his head found her shoulder anyway. He latched onto her, still unable to see clearly, and worried for the spinning of his head and weakness of his limbs. "Mortals have a bit more trouble with wounds like this, you know; you should have waited."
He understood that now, of course. Another aliment he had not had to deal with before his power was taken had presented itself to him, and he was not fond of the way he was discovering such things. They left him in compromising situations that nipped at his pride, what little was left of it after his defeat. Needing the help at all was a nuisance.
They waited there for a moment while his sight returned to him and the dizzy spell passed, and when he found his strength again, he lifted his head. She gave him a worried look, but let him bring himself to his own feet. His legs were unsteady, however, and he ended up leaning on the counter much more than he would have liked.
"…I should probably sit down," he said after a long moment.
"Probably," she agreed. "Let's get you to the couch."
She did insist on him leaning on her this time, despite the short distance. Her height was a hindrance, in this case; she was not much support for his much taller frame, but she did get him to the living area without incident.
The couch was big, taking up a large part of the room. Part of it extended one way a bit shorter than it did the other, and when he sat on it, he found it wonderfully comfortable. Sleep would find him quickly here, and was threatening to wrap around him more tightly every moment. It was a little disconcerting how quickly he had become so tired, and he realized belatedly that she was helping him to lie down.
When she turned away with the promise of some water for him, he reached out to grab her hand. A thought had occurred to him suddenly, and he wished to know before he gave to slumber.
"To whom…do I owe my thanks?" he asked, fighting off the urge to close his eyes.
She looked back at him for a moment, until a small smile formed on her lips.
"You can call me Caleigh," she answered.
He thought the name was nice, but that was all that passed through his mind before he could stay awake no longer, and succumbed to his exhaustion.
Loki is fun to explore like this, and Caleigh has been interesting to create. Bear with her (and me) for the story, if you would. I have plans for her.
And, if anyone could provide some help with the portion of this where Loki recalls what brings him to Earth again and the tense shifts to past rather than present-past, I'd greatly appreciate it. I know some of the tense is off, but I felt like I was using far too much of the word 'had' in there, and it's bugging me.
Oh, "Bloody Hel" might be too firm a nod toward the Norse underworld and Tom Hiddleston being English, but I thought it amusing and I'm the kind of person that likes those things. I debated making the scene with the Taser a slightly more obvious reference to Thor's unfortunate encounter with one, but I figured that was pushing it. Let me know if you think otherwise.
Making Loki mortal is…admittedly a stretch of Odin's power (I think), but for the purposes of this story the little trickster has to be mortal. That's one of those things that I can't really go back and fix if I find out it can't be done.
See you whenever I get around to chapter 2!
-sf