THE WRONG LANGUAGE
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She'd only meant for it to be a few celebratory glasses of something special. A little treat to success for their first victory against HYDRA-infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. But somehow, between swapping amusing tales of wild adventures that went disastrously wrong, and reminiscing of recent events, the cups emptied and filled (it was only after she stopped drinking, when her full glass overflowed,that she realized Loki had started using magic to replenish their glasses) and emptied and filled.
They got quite down into them.
At least, Loki had.
Raine had meant to stop, to call it a night because they both needed to sleep. Not for any special reason, just the longer they drank the harder it would be to face the morning. But the liquor was a nice, soft buzz, and Loki had warmed to his storytelling; developing an easy, relaxed yet elegant prose, and she was reluctant to put an end to the comfortableness of the whole atmosphere. The friendliness of it. The casual comradeship.
But he continued to drink as he went on with his stories from boyhood, when the world was wider and the magic was not so faded and harder to find. Raine struggled not to pay attention to the warm fire in his eyes, turning them a light, soft green flecked in gold. Or how he smiled as if seeing something he greatly appreciated. He was drunk, and she hadn't ever seen him drunk before. It was nothing, his expression; she had never seen him drunk before, she told herself, trying to stop her heart's erratic pounding. It was nothing. They were friends. Albeit a strange friendship, built on magic and dependency and stubborn determination. But it was only friendship.
They fell into a silence that was full of mirth and calmness and warmth from the afterglow of the liquor.
Raine's gaze flicked away from the city skyline outside the sliding glass door leading to the balcony to glance at him. He had become so still and quiet she wondered if he were even awake.
He was still awake, and he smiled at her when he caught her focus, looking drowsy and sated and thoroughly drunk.
She could help grinning at him; it was amusing and hilarious and simply. . . odd to see the Terror of Manhattan slouched beside her on the brown leather couch as if he were just another ordinary human.
They'd dressed him up so he could better blend in with the world around him that was so unlike the world he had known in his youth. He wore black jeans and a green v-neck t-shirt, a graphic jacket hanging off his shoulders that made him look rangy and thin, his fresh-washed hair falling down his shoulders in glossy smooth pitch-night ribbons. With the aid of the delectable fugue of the liquor, her mind ran wild as to what he reminded her of.
An immortal goth escaped from some punk-rock side-shop in the mall.
A street musician without a street or music to expound upon.
A graffiti artist lacking both medium and canvas to express his rebellion against the boundaries in which the world would have him lie.
She could smell the magic on him, like books and ice and pine forests and musky ashes just after the fire has been put out. It soothed her and reminded her of everything they'd done together, the good and the painful and the wicked. How much he had taught her about her own gifts, how much more he had taught her to control it, to wield it, and to accept it even though it felt like a bitter flame licking in her blood that she wanted to struggle against.
"Láta ek jafnan talt ér hvé vænn þinn auga ru?" Loki tilted his head, regarding her, still smiling lazily.
The strange, alien words surprised her, and she grinned apologetically. "I don't know what you're saying."
He sat up, leaning toward her. He set his glass down beside the bottle on the coffee table and, as if he hadn't heard, continued, "Hvé þinn auga ljóma líkr stiarna um sá efstr stikill ór nótt. Þú ert svo falleg að þú færir sál mína að sársauka fyrir þig." He sat so that he braced one hand on the couch arm and the other along the back, caging her against the cushions. But she didn't feel trapped; his expression was too soft and nonthreatening. "Minn elska."
Raine shifted in her seat. His eyes looked into hers intensely, the light in them flickering with something she couldn't exactly determine. It made her think about all of the feelings and fantasies she'd rather not revel in tonight; the ones that made her ache to be close to him, to feel his hands against her skin and his mouth on hers. But the secret desires came unbidden the longer their gazes held, despite how fiercely she fought to chain them down. How easy it would be to lean forward and touch their lips together, feather-light, just a brush. Just to see if he tasted of magic as much as he smelled of it.
She hadn't wanted to spoil the moment. Bitterness at her own inability to control her forbidden thoughts made her words sharper and louder than she'd meant them to be. "I have no idea what you're saying. It's not funny; actually, it feels a little rude."
He seemed to hesitate, retreating back to his side of the couch, eyes clouding to green-grey with concentration. The absence of him close to her was acute, and she didn't wish to think of it. The scent of smoldering pine lingered around her from how close he had been.
Lying his head back and sighing, Loki looked across at her, a more familiar mildly aggravated expression across his features. "Wretchedly infuriating woman. . . I do believe love you."
Raine felt her heartbeat stutter. Exhaling, she stared at him.
Loki smiled at her again, studying her features as she scrutinized his face, uncertain and confused by the blunt admission.
"You're totally too drunk to even know what you're saying."
"Perhaps, minn drottning." He sighed, flinging one arm out along the back of the couch. "But I will still love you in the morning. I just will not speak of it if that is how you wish it be." He closed his eyes, breathing evenly. She could tell he was falling asleep.
"Do you really?" Her voice was quiet.
Loki shifted, but didn't stir. Raine smiled sadly, looking at him. He'd probably forget everything come the morning. Or think he'd just dreamt it. Because he couldn't have meant it.
"I mean it." His voice broke the silence, a low growl, in contradiction to her thoughts.
She turned her head quickly, looking over at him.
He'd opened his eyes again. And then he lifted a hand toward her entreatingly. "Come here. Please."
Hesitant, she put her hand in his, moving along the couch to his side.
Without warning, he drew her down against him, his arm curling around her waist, hand resting easily at her hip as if he did it often. Her shirt hitched up with the way she half-sat, half-lay, and his fingertips drew nonsense circles and runes she didn't know the meaning of against her skin.
Raine sighed, closing her eyes as she lay her head down against his chest, slipping her left hand to lie over his steady heartbeat. She wanted to savor this moment if tomorrow they retreated back into the familiar safety of their odd friendship. She wrapped her arm around his waist, curling against him.
"Mhmm, betri," he whispered, his breath stirring strands of her silver hair. "Ég elska þig."
"You're saying things in the wrong language again," she murmured against his shirt, smiling.
"I love you," he rasped, bowing his head and gently nuzzling her hair before resting his nose against the side of her face, breathing in her scent of war and ruin and triumph. "My queen."
A/N:
I know, this one was short. But there should be longer ones eventually. All of the one-shots and drabbles and etc in here come from cast-off fanfic ideas for these two that were either too short to be multi-chaptered or I just didn't have the energy to flesh them out deeply. There's gonna be all sorts of stuff in here. The title of this one-shot collection comes from the song Cassiopeia by Sara Bareilles, which is one of my absolute favorites by her.
Translations of what Loki says in this chapter:
Note: I am not a linguist or proficient in Old Norse/any Scandinavian languages. I borrowed from whatever sources I could find; including crappy Google translate when I got bored of hunting down Old Norse phrasing online at random sites. Sorry if anything is inaccurate or incorrect.
"Láta ek jafnan talt ér hvé vænn þinn auga ru?" [have I ever told you how beautiful you look?]
"Hvé þinn auga ljóma líkr stiarna um sá efstr stikill ór nótt. Þú ert svo falleg að þú færir sál mína að sársauka fyrir þig." [How your eyes shine like stars at the highest point of the night. You are so beautiful that my soul aches to touch your soul.]
"Minn elska." [my love/dear one]
"Minn drottning." [my queen]
"Ég elska þig." [I love you]
WH