Author's Note: Hello! This is a multi-chapter-of-undetermined-length eventual Frosthawk fanfiction based off of a roleplay with me and my partner on another site, Lacewing. The lovely Lacewing takes Loki, with limited editing from me. She's given me permission to do this, so no need to report me. Thank you, and enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these awesome characters. Rights go to Marvel.
Spoilers: There are faint spoilers for Thor: The Dark World if you squint.
OoOoO
In The Interest of Curiosity (And Also of Boredom)
OoOoO
The position of King was a trying one.
Loki Laufeyson knew this already. Had known it ever since he was a lad. Unlike Thor, who viewed everything through Thor-colored goggles, Loki had been acutely aware of the changes that gradually took place during his growing up and the continued reign of Odin-king.
His father—and mother, to a point, though she had always been beautiful in Loki's eyes—seemed to age more quickly than his fellow Asgardians. Crows' feet, a dark circle beneath his visible eye, and hair that had been red when Loki was a boy, only to be stark gray when he had reached maturity, and a hunch that grew more pronounced over the passing of time, as if the weight of all the Nine Realms rested upon his shoulders (which it did). The hard planes of his face had grown harder, as if his expression were being carved from the face of a mountain, and the pleasant tone of his voice turned sour, harsh, like the sharp bark of a wolf.
All these things had cemented the fact in Loki's mind that ruling over nine kingdoms was difficult (Midgard only stopped counting at a later date, when Odin decided to leave the realm to its own devices, for the most part). And as a boy, he had been grateful that the mantle would pass to Thor, because Loki was not eager to have gray hairs, thank you (even if he knew that his brother would foist most of the difficult tasks onto Loki so the crown prince could go play war). But he still wanted to, at least, be considered for the position, for it was the principle of the thing! He just wanted someone to be comforted in the knowledge that, should Thor be unable to rule, Loki could do it just as well. ('Better', he corrected himself.) But even his dear mother had grown blind-sided to Thor's arrogance in the face of his golden achievements, though he never blamed her for it.
And then of course, Thor's coronation had happened, and Loki had snapped, jumped off a bridge, and had been persuaded to take over a realm. Then got imprisoned, stabbed through the chest (he unconsciously rubbed the area above his armor, grimacing. That hadn't felt particularly pleasant), and crowned king.
Well. There had been a bit more to it than that. But Loki wasn't one to reminisce when he had better, very important things to do.
Like sitting boredly on Hlidskjalf, Odin's—now Loki's—throne, in the dead of night with his eyes cast to Midgard. This was a frequent occurrence, for Loki was efficient enough to complete his kingly duties during the daylight and evening hours, and his insomnia gave him even more time to do what he would. So, he sat upon the throne - which was rather uncomfortable, unless one slouched like he did - and typically just allowed his gaze to wander aimlessly, watching the mortals go about their mayfly lives. (Although, and he would only admit this within the privacy of his mind, he often watched Thor and his mortal comrades. In another universe, another lifetime, he would have enjoyed being on more friendly terms with them.)
But tonight, something drew his gaze to Hungary, and after a brief moment of trying to look elsewhere - and failing - he narrowed his vision further to the country, particularly to the city of Budapest.
Loki ran a finger over his mouth absently, scanning the large city with a keen gaze. It was nighttime, and the bright lights of the capital's buildings contrasted with the dark alleyways and the dimmer edges of the city. In spite of the late hour, many mortals bustled about their business, though they were fewer in number, and kept to the more brightly-lit areas. He felt his eyes and his ears drawn to a more decrepit part of the city, and caught a flicker of two silhouettes at the back door of a large building. One was fiddling with the handle of the door—picking the lock, perhaps?—and the other half-leaned, half-sat against the wall beside his or her comrade, the figure's posture positively screaming with agony. The figure was quite clearly injured, even if he could not see the cause in the darkness. Loki looked closer, and caught a small flash of red hair before the door opened and the pair hurried inside, one figure dragging/carrying the injured one.
Loki felt a flash of recognition, but firmly brushed it away. Of course it isn't them. It couldn't be. Could it...? Loki recalled Barton speaking about a mission in Budapest while under the control of the scepter, and that it was one of his and Romanova's more... memorable times together.
It is a coincidence. It has to be. But one of them had been hurt. And not the one with the red hair. If Barton is harmed... But why should I care? The mortals are of no concern to me. But try as he might to lie to himself, Loki couldn't deny that he was both slightly concerned and insanely curious. Curious enough that the feeling positively ate at him, and he was memorizing the precise location of the building and standing from the throne before he could stop himself.
Just a peek. I'm only going to confirm that it isn't Barton and Romanova in that building, and that will be that. Simple curiosity is the only reason...
So focused on convincing himself was he, that Loki found himself at the Bifrost Observatory without any recollection of having traveled there in the first place, by foot or by magic. Heimdall appraised him with barely-concealed contempt from outside the large dome, and Loki strode forward with purpose in his steps. "Direct the Bifrost to the city of Budapest, Gatekeeper," he ordered, his armor melting away into more appropriate Midgardian formalwear (of which he was especially fond, not that he would ever admit to such a thing out loud), Gungnir obligingly transforming into an elaborate cane.
"You shall not make it in time." Heimdall did not appear too concerned with the admission. Loki felt a brief leap in his chest, his wound flaring almost sympathetically. So it is Barton and Romanova... This only cemented his resolve. "We'll see," he replied silkily. "Do not make me repeat my order." You will see, Gatekeeper. I will arrive in time.
Heimdall regarded him for a long moment (too long! he thought with a growl) before turning around and proceeding to follow Loki's command. His every step seemed to echo with grudging obedience and petulance. Heimdall never did like Loki, for some reason, king or not.
Whatever. I do not care. Hurry up!
It seemed to take an eternity for the Bifrost to start up, and when it finally pointed towards Midgard Loki was practically on the edge of the precipice with impatience. Finally, finally, it pulled him into the vortex, and he found himself standing on Midgardian soil. Emphasis on soil, for he had been placed at the very far edge of the city of Budapest on the side of a road, hardly inside its borders.
Wonderful. Fantastic. I hate you, Heimdall. So very much.
Loki saw the glowing city of Budapest and grit his teeth. He did not have time for any of this nonsense! Bemoaning the humiliation that was sure to follow, even though only Heimdall could see him, Loki stepped out into the center of the road without care, and stood waiting until a mortal vehicle, a motorcycle his mind supplied, came to a stop in front of him. The driver cursed at him from his seat, but his Hungarian litany was stopped short as Loki pulled a handful of solid gold from his tailored coat, (in reality, he'd grabbed it from the pocket-dimension he made frequent use of) and pushed it into the man's hands, for it wouldn't do for the King of Asgard to be stealing from mortals, now would it?
"I am commandeering this vehicle, thank you. You may go purchase another with that. Or whatever." And with a small push the man stumbled off the bike and watched in shock as Loki did, indeed, perch atop the bike and stare at the many buttons and levers. How does this even function? Oh, whatever! I do not have time for this! He directed a small tendril of magic into the system, the invisible strand of flowing from his index finger. and felt around with it until the bike roared back to life and took off towards the city with Loki aboard.
If this is all a joke, I am going to make something explode. Violently. With much shrapnel involved.
After such a rough start, and a few minutes of darting through traffic (during which he paid no heed to road rules), it seemed his luck had turned around when the building he'd spied through the throne appeared shortly in his view. He stepped off the bike and with his absence the engine abruptly ceased and the bike fell to a halt behind him on the pavement, halfway on the sidewalk. Loki didn't care for the vehicle's fate. Maybe some enterprising mortal would find it and pawn it off somewhere. He did not care, his h - Barton - was injured. Possibly. And Loki had wasted enough time already.
He darted into the alley he'd seen Romanova and Barton duck down, and went to the back. The door was ever so slightly ajar, and Loki entered quietly, only to see an emergency staircase unfolding above him. Huffing impatiently through his nose, he took the stairs three at a time, stopping at each door he came upon to see if it had been unlocked and opened. Finally, he came upon the door designated as number fourteen, and found it shut but not locked. He entered and stopped as the very dim ambient light coming from the windows illuminated a dark blotch on the floor. It smelled faintly of iron to Loki's senses, and it spurred his steps forward.
Blood.
Follow the blood, follow the blood... Barton, you are incredibly unfortunate, did you know that? He darted silently between the dark desk cubicles, looking inside and beneath each one he came upon.
Where are they?
Where are they?