Author's Notes: Okay, guys, thanks for sticking with me on this. What started as a little one-shot turned into this, and I have to say, I enjoyed myself a lot, and I had unexpected feels writing this last chapter. Unless I absolutely overwhelmed with the urge to write more, though, I think this is going to be the end of this series.
If you haven't read the other fics in this series, I recommend that you go back and check those out first, or this is going to make very little sense.
If you have not read Journey into Mystery (which, from the comments, it sounds like a lot of people haven't), you really, really should. But that said, this is a very simplified, very abridged version of what is going on here: Ikol, the old version of Loki, gives a crown made of Loki's fear to the demon Mephisto. It is super powerful and this is a Very Bad Thing. To keep Mephisto from stomping the universe, Loki agrees to let Ikol take his body back. This will destroy his thoughts and fears, because it will destroy him - and, in the process, the crown as well. Ikol allows him three conversations before he goes, but he can't tell anyone what's going on.
In Which the Boogeyman Has a Visitor and the Third Time is Not the Charm
It is not dark when Loki wakes, lying stretched upon the floor with a tome of recent history open before him, but it feels as though it should be. It feels as though the world has grown dim – as though it presses upon his shoulders, heavy as any chain.
From a future with infinite possibilities, only this day remains. From countless words spread over a lifetime yet to be, he has only three conversations to his name. Three conversations to make his mind known – to say his farewells to those who will be missed. Three conversations before giving himself over to the lurking gargoyle of his own devious intent. Three conversations before he disappears, whole and unaccounted for, and leaves the world behind him.
The number settles in Loki's heart like a magpie upon his shoulder.
Three, say the scholars of Wikipedia, heralds magic in Midgardian folklore. Djinnis grant three wishes, and a strange man spins straw into gold thrice upon the wheel. The third time, they claim, invokes the charm.
Perhaps for Loki, too, the number can become a kind of magic. He will make them count, these conversations; he will see to his debts; he will use them to undo the things his other self would see done.
The Midgardians are wrong in many things – they think themselves wily and inventive, perceptive and wise – but often, they know very little indeed. In this, Loki wishes them correct. He hopes that the third time does, indeed, invoke the charm.
He has only three conversations to his name, and the little god of mischief is already thinking how he will spend them. He is already counting his words, already weighing his options.
He thinks of his brother, the kindest, daftest man ever to grace the Nine Realms. He thinks of hostile Leah, whose harsh words, he has always hoped, hide affection. He thinks of Jack – of a quick smile and laughing eyes, of feet burned raw and blistered with the proof of devotion.
Loki's heart twists sideways to consider what will come of the spirit of winter when his conversations have ended – to consider the unwanted exile his absence will reinstate. Ikol does not see the boy that comes with the wind, after all.
The man he used to be has no use for the tales Midgardians tell their children.
There's a hole in the ground in the middle of the forest, and Jack knows what's at the bottom. He knows in the same way that children are certain monsters lurk in the closet, in the way that sleepers waking from a nightmare will stay awake rather than risk a return to the dream.
He knows the place for what it is: the home of the Boogeyman, dark and deep and unnerving. It's a place of fear, and Jack's never seen it before today – but he's never been the kind to back down, and he isn't going to start now.
He peels away the rotted wood that makes what was once a bed, careful not to do more damage than he has to, because offering offense seems a poor way to begin. Jack stands a minute looking down into the yawning black when the way is clear – and then he jumps, heedless and mindless, counting on the wind to cushion his fall.
At the bottom, he finds high arched ceilings and shadows in sharp contrast. He finds graceful, dangling cages that swing from the ceiling, empty as though huge, black birds have recently flown away to abandon them here. He finds silence, echoing and solid, and he breaks it. "Hello? Anybody home?"
There is no answer, but he feels eyes on him, sudden and watchful, and the sensation prickles up his back like burrs in wool. "Hello?" he says again. "I'm looking for the Boogeyman." He turns to check behind him, searching for the gaze that he is certain he feels, but there is nothing. Only darkness, cloyingly heavy.
"Well, well," says a voice, somewhere behind him. "Jack Frost, come for a visit." It is a cultured voice, a reasonable voice, accented and even. Jack is not afraid of a voice like that; he spins to face it, but his haste is borne from the urgency of the situation and not from terror.
"You are here," he says, with very real relief. "I knew it." He takes two steps forward, still scanning for the one he addresses. "Look, we've got to talk."
"I was under the impression that we're talking now." The voice is at Jack's shoulder, and this time he does start – half turns, eyes wide, to take in the man that stands beside him. The Boogeyman is tall, with preternaturally long limbs and skin the grey of Jack's lake on a cloudy day. He is draped in robes that cling like shadows, and his eyes are gleaming yellow, and his teeth, bared in a smile, are sharp and uneven. He should be frightening, but Jack is not even unsettled.
"Listen," Jack says. "I just found out about something. It's something you'll like."
The man's smile quirks slightly, shifts from predatory to amused. "Eloquent," he remarks. "And informative, as well."
Jack ignores the sarcasm and pushes on, undeterred. "A crown made of fear. And powerful, too. It's right up your alley."
The man considers him for a moment, stiff and matter-of-fact. "If you had the greatest atlas the world has ever seen, I suspect you couldn't find the sort of alley mine is." Those yellow eyes are watchful, deliberating. "Although you do have me intrigued."
"Of course I do," Jack tells him. "You're a smart guy. It'd be a waste to let this slip by."
"Perhaps," the Boogeyman concedes. "But as a 'smart guy,' I feel it my duty to ask: what precisely do you stand to gain?"
It is a question that Jack has been expecting. It is a question that he has rehearsed, just in case – answer after answer, turned over and considered and discarded before the boy has decided upon this one. He lifts his chin and squares his jaw, and he admits: "The person who has it can't keep it."
"Ah." The Boogeyman's eyes go half-lidded, the smile altogether too knowing. "So you're hoping I'll play the thief." The man lifts one hand, spreads long, grey fingers and gestures to encompass Jack. "Not quite so altruistic as you'd have me believe."
"I never said anything about altruism," Jack tells him, and folds his arms. "Just that I knew about something you might like."
"How very generous." It's plain in the Boogeyman's face and in his voice: he's not convinced. He's not convinced, and the longer they stand here, in this hole beneath the world, among these cages and shadows, the closer Loki comes to slipping away forever.
Jack wishes that Loki were here now. He needs his friend, needs the clever strategies and elaborate plans – the believable half-truths always ready on his lips. Loki would play a game of words, would dodge and maneuver and toe around the issue until he got what he wanted.
But Loki is not here, and Jack is on his own.
He could play this game, the boy thinks, watching those narrowed yellow eyes. He could go up against an opponent more skilled than he is—could waste time he doesn't have and leave Loki to his own devices while he fumbles through. Or he can do this his own way.
"It's got to be today," Jack finds himself saying. "If you wait any longer, it'll be broken – and then no one gets it."
"And I have a timeline," the man scoffs. "This proposal grows more attractive by the moment."
Jack shrugs, but it's not a casual gesture. It's tense and impatient, like he has other places he needs to be. "Take it or leave it," the boy says. "But tell me soon. If you're leaving it, I'm going to have to figure something else out."
There's silence as the Boogeyman considers him. Jack can feel the tension in his shoulders and his jaw; his teeth are clenched tight, and his hand is on his staff like it's a weapon. That feels appropriate, somehow – because right now, if he has to, Jack's ready to take on the world.
"You know," the man says at last. "I believe you would."
Jack can feel the disappointment spread; it starts in his stomach and travels up his spine, sick and cold and dizzying as vertigo. His mind shudders to a halt, and the boy wills it to work again, to provide a Plan B, but the words have scared him like nothing else in this place of fear. He takes a breath, and then another, and he's so busy trying to calm down and think that he almost misses what the Boogeyman says next. "Fortunately for you, that won't be necessary."
The relief is sudden and giddily exhilarating; Jack laughs with it, and the sound is strange in the darkness. "You won't regret this," he promises, and takes the man's hand in both of his own.
The Boogeyman extracts it from the boy's grip and smooths down his robe, as though the contact has ruffled him. "That remains to be seen," he says.
Three conversations, been and gone. Three sets of words that could not yield him what he wishes – and words have always been the weapon Loki knows the best.
He has managed nothing at all, save sending Leah beyond the reach of his own hands. He has not said his goodbyes, has not made his amends – is not ready to give up this world, with its small pleasures to balance the rather larger heartaches.
And still Jack has not come. Still the bringer of winter is conspicuous in his absence, and Loki does not know how much time yet remains, if there is any at all.
He cannot bear to give himself over without one final farewell. He does not wish to cease to be without a word of explanation, without one final embrace for the boy who will return to a life without them, after he has gone.
In this, it seems, as in so many other things, Loki will not have his way.
"Ikol," the little god of mischief says, and closes his eyes against the sting in them. "I'm ready," he intends to say. "We can begin," are the words on his lips.
They are never spoken. They are forgotten entirely when the wind howls in through the hole in the wall, heralding a flurry of snow and the spirit of winter, bright-eyed with excitement. "Loki," he says, and he takes three steps forward, trippingly light, and seals the boy in a chill embrace.
Four, Loki finds himself thinking, may be the true number of magic – but even so, he must be cautious that his other self not uncover these broken terms. This must be a conversation that does not happen, and so the boy does not lift his arms to clasp them about his friend, does not turn his eyes to Jack's.
"I shall have to go soon," he says, as though speaking to himself – as though coming to terms, alone in his tower, with what must be.
He expects confusion. He expects demands for an answer. He is already rehearsing, in his mind, what he might say to provide an explanation without making obvious what he attempts.
But Jack is shaking his head, wild and delighted, thrumming with energy. "No, you won't. I talked to – do you know the Boogeyman? He's like me, but he deals in fear."
Loki feels his face drain of color, wonders how in all the Nine Realms Jack has discovered this ultimatum. He feels something small and uncomfortable flutter in his chest at the words, as though a bird has become ensnared within.
"I heard you talking about the crown," Jack tells him. "So I went and told him." The boy pulls back just enough to seize Loki by both shoulders, actually shakes him in excitement. "He's got it. There's a new Fear Lord." The boy that comes with the wind laughs, and the sound is oddly choked. "You don't have to go."
Loki does not respond, at first; his thoughts are busy determining how he might reply without giving this away. It takes several seconds for him to realize that, if what Jack says is true, the number of conversations no longer matters. He might have three, or thirty, or one hundred thousand, and a certain scheming magpie can do nothing at all.
"You don't have to go," Jack says again, and it's not until the boy reaches up to touch his cheek, the tips of his fingers cold and gentle, that Loki realizes he has begun to cry.
The little god of mischief raises shaking arms to finally return the embrace, the need for pretense wiped unexpectedly clean. He leans his head upon Jack's shoulder, and he closes his fingers into the frosted fabric of the boy's shirt, and he finds himself lightheaded with the sudden reprieve. The world lies before him once more. It is not perfect or shining or grand – for Loki's glasses, as the Midgardians say, are untinted by flowers – but at the very least, it is possible.
In an instant, his life has been restored to him.
"Let it never be said," Loki pronounces, words muffled by the cloth of Jack's shirt, "that you've no mind for strategy."
He cannot see the expression on Jack's face, for his vision is blocked by worn blue riddled with frost, but he imagines it to be a narrow grin, the sort that promises mischief. And he suspects that, when this day is past, when their minds have turned once more to adventures with no relation to fire or fear, when it comes time again to make plans, he will be reminded of these words.
Loki finds that he looks forward to it.