A/N: So this sort of happened by accident. Little bit different to normal. Spoilers for The Dark World, The Winter Soldier, and some season 2 of Agents of Shield. Hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think!
Substitutes
by Flaignhan
He wakes in a cold sweat. His heart is pumping rapidly in his chest, blood pounding in his ears, his lungs heaving in sharp, shallow breaths. He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, the torch brackets illuminating on his entry. With shaking hands, he turns on the cold tap, icy water gushing from it, and he splashes it over his face. Droplets speckle his chest, and he's not sure if the drips running down the side of his neck are sweat or water. He throws more and more water onto his face, until he is shaking from the cold, and then, eventually, with numb hands, turns off the tap, and stares at his reflection in the ornately framed mirror that hangs over the sink.
The dark circles under his eyes are prominent, and combined with the sharp lines of his cheekbones, he looks more skeletal than ever. It doesn't matter though, because he can hide it. No one need ever know that he wakes every night, his heart racing, his mind filled with poisonous wisps of memories and nightmares. He raises his index finger and traces the faint line that runs alongside his temple. It will go, eventually, he knows that, but he grows impatient. Everything is fine now, everything is how it ought to be, and yet he still bears the scars of his fall, only ever able to hide them, never shake them off entirely.
He pulls a towel from the rail and presses the soft, fluffy cotton to his face. He breathes in deeply, in and out, in and out, and then pats his neck and shoulders dry, before tossing the towel into the basket in the corner of the room, his heart now beating at a steady, more acceptable rate. He leaves the bathroom and closes the door quietly behind him, then squints in the dark as he makes his way back over to his bed. He crosses the room without incident, and climbs onto the mattress, reaching over to his bedside cabinet and lighting the candle that sits in a hefty holder carved from solid gold. With the small flame illuminating the darkness, lifting the veil just that little bit, he makes himself comfortable, pulling his blankets up around his shoulders. He wishes he could have some music, just something to drown out he silence. The dark he can master, but the silence always gets to him, and if his head is not plagued by the deep, calm voice he has come to recognise as cruelty itself, then it is swimming in memories of soft lullabies from his childhood.
Neither of these things coax him into slumber.
He stares at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the lines of the intricately carved patterns in the stone, and eventually, after what feels like a lifetime of waiting, he hears the distant crow of a cockerel. He gets out of bed and heads for the bathroom once more, but when he enters this time, the room is light enough that the torches need not illuminate. The dawn sky sends just enough light through the tall, arched windows, and he turns the bath taps on.
He wanders over to the window, staring out across the kingdom, his eyes itching with tiredness. In the distance he spots a gaggle of workers, treading the path to the mill that sits proudly on a hill a mile or so ahead of them. Perhaps he's in the wrong job. He certainly keeps the same hours as them, would he not be better off among them?
He turns away from the window and strips off his pyjama trousers, kicking them to one side before he steps down into the sunken stone bath. He lets the taps run for a few more minutes, until the water is dangerously close to floor level, then stretches out one of his legs, turning off the taps with his big toe. He closes his eyes and breathes in the steam, his arms resting comfortably on the edge of the bath. He can feel the heat rising in his neck and face, the sweat beading on his brow, and although the scorching water sears his skin, he does not relent. He does not reach out his big toe and turn the cold tap on, not even a little to ease the sharpness.
Eventually he will burn away his outer layer and be left with new flesh, un-maimed, unsullied, and all his own.
Fire is cleansing, is it not, my prince?
He wakes with a start, his heart rapid, and in the commotion he manages to splash a good few gallons of water over the edge of the bath, flooding the floor tiles. He takes a deep breath, reacquainting himself with his surroundings, and it's not until a good minute has passed that he realises that the sky outside is now bright and clear, and the water of his bath is lukewarm.
With a growl of impatience he rips the plug from the bottom of the bath and climbs out, cladding himself in a fluffy towel and trying not to slip over on the slick floor tiles. He retreats into his bedroom and finds his clothes, hanging up for him by his dressing screen. He towels himself down quickly and pulls them on, not entirely sure what time it is. If he's late for breakfast, Sif will start asking questions again, and if there is one thing he cannot abide first thing in the morning, nor at any time of day, it is her questions.
He takes a look at himself in the mirror before he leaves, and watches as his face morphs from the sunken, sleep deprived, skull to which only he is accustomed, and into the fuller, more coloured, healthier visage of a king.
"Vanaheim has invited you to join them in a feast next month," Sif says, placing a heavy parchment invitation on the table in front of him.
"Why?" Loki asks, before she can continue reeling off the morning's news. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she pauses, her mouth ajar, ready to tell him the next thing on her list, but then she exhales softly, her shoulders slumping.
"The king's eldest daughter is of age. I think he would like to introduce you to her." Sif doesn't bother to hide her disapproval of the idea, her lips pursed as she awaits Loki's response.
"Not interested," Loki replies, waving his hand dismissively.
"It would be rude to ref- "
"If he wants his eldest daughter to marry me, after I have been on the throne for such a minute amount of time, after I was only just grudgingly pardoned by Odin shortly before his death, if he wants to send his eldest daughter to me, after all the things I've done, after all the other realms think they know about me, then he can't like her very much."
"So?" Sif asks. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't go and at least try to - "
"If he wants rid of her then I certainly won't allow him to palm her off onto me. She must be ghastly."
"But you can't know that," Sif argues. She collapses into the chair opposite him, her arms resting on the table. "He might just want her to marry the king of Asgard. That's not a terrible fate for a daughter."
Loki frowns at her, then shakes his head. "No. Either he's eager to get rid of her or he doesn't give a damn about her. Either way, I'm not interested in a girl that's only just come of age."
Sif sighs and slumps down in her seat. "You should go to the feast," she tells him. "And when you do, do not be rude about his daughter. Politely decline the offer if he brings it up, but do not burn bridges."
"And what excuse am I to offer him? I'm not betrothed to another, so what do I say? The thought of marrying your child repulses me? I'm suspicious of your attempts to send her off to another realm at the first opportunity? What?"
"You don't say any of those things," Sif says exasperatedly. "You tell him you consider yourself married to your realm, that with all the time and effort you spend making sure the kingdom is as it should be, you would never have a second to spare for his charming daughter, and it would be selfish of you to condemn her to a life of loneliness and misery."
Loki smirks, unable to keep his amusement at bay. Since his ascension to the throne, Sif has gradually learned to accept him. She argued at first, argued fiercely, before heading straight to Midgard to tell Thor of yet another one of Loki's deceptions. Annoyingly, it had been Thor's blessing that had settled the whispers, that had given the kingdom that final push it had needed in order to fully, truly, accept Loki as its king. But, the bumpy start having progressed into a smooth, level road, Sif now treats him like she used to, with the occasional pointed 'my liege' thrown in whenever she particularly disagrees with him.
Though he will never admit it aloud, the days are easy because of Sif, because of the noise and space she takes up, because of her inability to let go of a thousand years of treating him like a little brother. And, he suspects, because now that Thor is well and truly gone from Asgard, she no longer has to deal with the pressure of the entire kingdom expecting her to become their queen. Though he knows that her heart still aches from time to time, Loki cannot deny that he prefers the Sif who has committed treason, who has had her strings loosened, and who is prepared to overlook his crimes, providing he doesn't step out of line by an inch, going forward.
"And what if he asks about heirs?" Loki asks. He takes his goblet and raises it to his lips, sipping the water before replacing it on the table. "What then?"
Sif's eyebrows raise a fraction on her forehead while she thinks, and then she lets out a heavy sigh. "Tell him that Thor will produce a son eventually, that you will name your nephew your heir, and he will ascend upon your passing." She shrugs and looks away, chewing on her lower lip, and Loki rolls his eyes, straightens up in his chair then fixes her with a serious gaze.
"The way I see it," he says, and at this she turns back to face him, her expression strong and defiant. "You have two options. Either you can wait around for eighty, perhaps a hundred years, and by that time the lovely Jane will be dead and gone - "
Sif opens her mouth to argue, her eyebrows drawn together in a disapproving frown, but Loki holds up a finger, silencing her.
"She will, Sif. She will. I do not wish it upon her, but that is neither here nor there because it will happen. She will grow old and grey and fade into nothingness, and Thor will return here," at this he pulls a face of disgust, which only earns him a stonier look from Sif, "heartbroken. And you will still be young and beautiful, and you will be there to comfort him in his hour of need."
Sif opens her mouth to speak again but Loki cuts across her before she can get a single word out.
"Or," he says pointedly, his finger still raised in order to hold off her arguments. "You can accept that he's oaf - "
"An oaf whose life you nearly died saving."
"And you can start respecting yourself, because you should never ever settle for being anybody's second choice, much less their last resort. Don't ever be second best."
Sif blinks and sits back in her chair, gazing at him thoughtfully. For a moment, he thinks she is about to thank him for his infinite pearls of wisdom, for his kind and sage advice, for putting aside his kingly duties in order to ease the ache in her heart.
"You'll forgive me if I take your advice with a pinch of salt," she says coolly. "You are, after all, the second son who, in a bid to prove himself, attempted to destroy…two realms, at last count?"
Loki bristles, his eyes narrowing. Sif meets his gaze without fear, for she knows (and it was foolish of him to let her find out) that he will never punish her for speaking out of turn, no matter how low a blow she deals him. She is far too important to the smooth running of the kingdom for him to ever consider punishing her, and he hates the idea that she uses that knowledge to her constant advantage.
"One son is currently slumming it on Midgard with his mortal wench," Loki tells her icily. "The other son has the throne, and a young, supple princess ready for the taking, if he so chooses. Tell me again who is second best? Would you like me to draw you a diagram?"
Sif raises an eyebrow, then continues on as though they had not been substantially sidetracked. "The sickness in the valley has spread, and nearly all work has stopped. None of them are able to pay their taxes. What do you want to do about it?"
"Send the healers down," Loki says with a bored wave of his hand. He sinks down in his chair now they're back to the tedious business of taxes and people. "The sooner they're well, the sooner they'll be working again. And the sooner they're working again, the sooner they'll be able to pay their taxes."
"Very well," Sif says. "And what of this month's taxes? Shall we backdate them, allow them to pay double next month?"
Loki frowns. "How many affected?"
"Two dozen taxpayers," Sif tells him. "But around fifty, altogether."
"Then forget it," he says with a sigh. "It's a pittance. But make sure they know how generous their good king has been to them."
"I'll tell them not to worry," Sif retorts, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. "Onto the last matter however…"
Loki groans and stares up at the ceiling, his arms folded across his stomach. Had he known that ruling was so dull he would have sought other prizes instead. But here he is discussing valley dwellers and taxes and princesses who probably aren't old enough to buckle their own boots. Some days he wishes for war, just so he has something to consider, just so there is a sense of urgency and value to his decision making. But then he recalls the day that the dark elves came, and with an icy jolt he is reminded that battle does not ease the boredom, nor does it make the most of its king. Battle destroys, and battle ruins, and battle is not as interesting as the stories make out.
"Have you seen the healers yet?"
Loki scowls. "I don't need to see the healers."
"The sleeping solution will ease your nerves, it will not leave you vulnerable," Sif tells him, her voice low so that the guards stationed at the main doors cannot hear them. "You would be well rested, should you take it."
"I'm fine," Loki says through gritted teeth. "And you forget your standing." He pushes himself out of his chair and heads towards the doors.
"You mean I'm not allowed to be concerned for my king's wellbeing?" Sif asks, turning in her seat to face him.
Loki opens his mouth to respond, but a voice speaks from behind him that silences any words that would have fallen from his lips.
"I thought that was my job?"
A heavy hand lands on Loki's shoulder, giving him a rough squeeze, before Loki is forcibly turned around and pulled into a brief, but nevertheless deeply unpleasant, hug.
"Brother," Thor says warmly as he releases him. Loki pulls away from him and steps back, brushing down his sleeves.
"What do you want?" Loki demands, displeased that Thor has deigned to show up now, despite his promise that he will remain almost exclusively on Midgard, with Jane.
"I came to see my brother," Thor says brightly, his smile wide. He raises a hand in greeting at Sif, which she returns with a soft smile. "There's no crime in that, is there?"
"Not yet," Loki retorts. "Though the law could change."
Thor ignores him and steps past him, heading towards Sif. "Why are you concerned for him?" he asks, his brow furrowed. "What ails him?"
Loki sends a venomous glare towards her, and she blinks before allowing an easy, reassuring smile to form on her lips.
"He's fine," she says, meeting Thor's gaze without hesitation. "I was just concerned because there has been illness in the valley and he was there not long ago."
"But you're well?" Thor asks, returning his attention to Loki. "You're quite well?"
"Yes," Loki answers, his teeth gritted, patience wearing thin. Between the two of them, Sif and Thor make it very easy for him to wish he were miles away, and he thanks the stars for Jane Foster. Had she not barrelled into their lives, Sif and Thor might well be married, might well be King and Queen of Asgard, and then where would he be? The prince who has to put up with constant nosiness and teasing. No, he is very grateful for Jane Foster.
"Tell me what you want and go away," Loki says snippily. His weariness is catching up with him, and he hopes to be able to catch a couple of hours rest while Sif busies herself responding to the king of Vanaheim and dealing with the valley dwellers.
"I - " Thor falters, then takes a few slow steps back towards Loki, his hands clasped in front of him, his bright façade dropping in a heartbeat. "Will you grant me this request, if I promise to leave for Midgard immediately?"
Loki considers him for a moment. There are faint shadows under his eyes, nothing compared to the ones that Loki is hiding, but noticeable all the same. His blue eyes have lost their usual sense of merriment, are glazed with tiredness and moving rapidly with anxiety.
"Is it Jane?" Loki asks, and he glances up to Sif to see her brow crease in concern.
"Jane's fine," Thor replies, without hesitation. Loki keeps his eyes on Sif, and when she notices his gaze, she narrows her eyes and looks away.
"Then what is it? I can't promise you something without first knowing what it is."
"It's only a very small favour, Brother," Thor says earnestly, stepping even closer to Loki, until there is just a couple of yards between them. Loki huffs at the slowly shrinking space between them, then looks up at Thor, his forehead lined with worry, his face bristling with stubble from days without care.
"Very well," Loki says exasperatedly. Whatever it is, he knows that Thor is too sickeningly decent to try and trick him into handing over the throne or something equally stupid. He may not know what it is that Thor wants, but he knows that he wants Thor gone, and the sooner he agrees to his request, the sooner he can be rid of him and his large, blundering form.
"On your life?" Thor asks, and Loki forces down childhood memories of stupid games, interrogations, and silly, unimportant promises.
"On my life," agrees Loki, his suspicion piquing. "Now what is it?"
"I need your help," Thor says simply.
Loki's stomach drops. Help is an incredibly broad thing. Help can range from hauling him out of the mud when he has fallen over, but can also include smuggling him out of Asgard via a precarious and tricky back alley bifrost.
"If I recall correctly," Loki says, his eyes narrowed. "The last time I helped you, I ended up with a sword rammed through my gut. You'll forgive me if I don't deem this a small favour."
He turns, ready to leave, but then there is the sound of heavy footsteps, and a large hand grips him firmly by the shoulder, stopping him and turning him around.
"It's not dangerous," Thor tells him, his blue eyes boring into Loki's own. "I swear to you that no harm will come to you. We…" He lets out a heavy sigh and looks towards the ceiling. When he returns his gaze to Loki, his eyes are over bright. "We don't know what to do."
"Who's we?"
"SHIELD," Thor murmurs, and he must know it is a deal breaker, because he tightens his grip on Loki's shoulder and opens his mouth, about to continue speaking, presumably so Loki has no chance to argue with him.
"Forget it," Loki says, pushing Thor's hand away. "Anything to do with SHIELD does not guarantee my safety."
Loki turns once more and heads to the doors, but at Thor's next words, he halts immediately, his legs anchoring to the ground.
"It's Agent Romanov," Thor says. "She's been compromised."
"Say that again?"
"Agent Romanov has been compromised."
Loki turns, his lips curving into a smile. "That's…" His mind searches for the right word, until at last he finds one, simple, and perfect. "That's interesting."