Strikingly Similar

One year and counting. Since he died. As much as he hates to say it, he misses him, his oaf of a brother. Loki smiles bitterly.

"Never even dreamt that I'd think that," he mumbles into the freezing air. "Never in my wildest fantasies did I ever think that I'd miss my brother and his idiotic ways."

He stands at the edge of a forest, which he's pretty sure is in Canada, but you never know with Midgard. It's all the same. All so polluted and overrun with humans. He suppresses a sneer at the thought of them. Loki has developed a distinct and bitter hatred of humans, which definitely isn't brought on by his humiliating defeat at their hands two years ago.

But on the run, hunted by too many species, too many people, he doesn't quite know what to do. In the past few years, he doubts that many other people had angered as many as he has. It's quite a feat, he admits to himself. Whether it's something to be proud of, is a different matter. Odin certainly wouldn't be. He smirks. The old fool is probably celebrating his death. No honour for liars and tricksters. Just shame and disgust. But then again, what did Odin expect? The idiot adopted, without consent, he notes, the son of his enemy! The Jotnar are despised for their cunning and sharp minds, so why should Loki be any different? He scowls, and stares with hatred at the scars that adorn his Jotun skin.

It's cold up here, he admitted to himself about an hour ago, and reluctantly changed his form to the skin better suited to sulking in freezing forests. And he hates it. Hates himself. If he wasn't such a selfish brute, if he wasn't such a coward as he's been repeatedly told, he tells himself, he'd have committed suicide long, long ago. Ended the pain, ended the suffering that he has brought upon too many worlds. But he's scared to do so, and so for that reason he carries on, bitter and angry. With scarlet eyes he surveys the white-and-green wasteland before him. He doesn't expect to see a dark shape moving across the icy tundra. He narrows his eyes, reverting to his Aesir skin, because nobody expects to see a man out here, let alone a blue on. Unless they were frostbitten, he muses, but that's going off topic. The figure has a metal arm, Loki notes. They move catlike, so possibly an assassin. Maybe they've been sent to kill him. It's a man, with long dark-brown hair and what looks like a mask or muzzle covering his lower face. Loki shudders, remembering the constraints he was forced to wear upon his capture by SHIELD.

The man hasn't seen me yet, Loki realises, and from the way the would-be assassin is stumbling around, he looks injured, or disoriented. Could be a soldier, from the black clothing that makes him stick out like a sore thumb against the pure white snow. But he's not here on purpose, for that exact reason. Who sends a killer into action where they can easily be seen? Amateurs.

The man draws closer, and Loki shifts into a stance that will make it easy to both deliver and dodge any blows that this mysterious person could instigate. But as the figure stumbles towards him, Loki notes the blood soaking into the snow, and he can distinctly hear the muffled noises of pain that make their way out from behind the mask. He can see the obvious limp from what appears to be a knife wound. So not an assassin. A hunted man, like himself. Loki raises an eyebrow, because this unexpected turn of events could turn in his favour.

They are close enough now, so that when the man lifts his head and registers Loki's existence with chilling, pale blue eyes, Loki does take notice of the pure pain and fear that clouds the man's expression. And he knows the look all too well, and he knows exactly what the owner of the bright blue eyes is feeling and thinking, because it is a feeling of terror and pain and unknowing and everything in between that he has experienced time and time again, throughout his life.

And when the man collapses barely a metre in front of him in an ungainly heap, yanking the mask from his face and mumbling a "Please, help me," in what Loki is sure is a Brooklyn accent, it is only the striking similarity in both mind and feelings between himself and this person that allows his cold heart to melt (for a moment, he tells himself). Concentrating hard, because healing was never his 'thing', he decides that the best way to help this man is to knock him out. So he does. With magic, of course. Because Loki Laufeyson is definitely not the sort of person who punches other people in the face. He'd never do that.

Bucky Barnes awakes very fast, and sits up very fast, because he's not entirely sure where he is and what has happened. He appears to be on the very edge of a forest, and propped up against a tree. Last time he remembered, he had a knife in his leg. But he doesn't now. And Bucky is relatively sure that he doesn't perform surgery in his sleep.

"Ah, you're awake."

A cold, mildly amused voice cuts through the air like a knife. A really sharp, British knife. The sound sets Bucky's teeth on edge, and he clambers to his feet clumsily, wincing slightly, as even the strongest magic cannot heal an infected stab wound in twelve hours.

"Who's there?" he shouts, voice shaking a little, but he tries to sound scary and intimidating like he did when he was looking after Steve, all those years ago. He really needs to find Steve, and he was, until he ran into some people who did not like him and had decided to put a knife in his thigh. A knife which is now not where it was yesterday – ie in his leg – and Bucky is pretty sure that the currently disembodied voice has something to do with it.

"Well done. It was me who healed you. Clever boy."

Bucky spins around, because this time the voice was definitely behind him. He is rewarded by the sight of a dark haired man leaning against a tree, with the kind of expression that reminds him all too well of death and pain. It's the look of a hunted man. A man consumed by suffering and injustice. The man is tall, taller than Bucky, but leaner and for some reason, intensely more powerful. High cheekbones, long black hair, too-bright eyes, and pale, pale skin give the effect of something otherworldy, inhuman. He's dressed in some kind of alien armour, all black and gold and green. Bucky is pretty sure that this is the kind of person that throws knives and wields magic. It's just a feeling, but Bucky is almost certain that his suspicions are correct.

"You're not human." Bucky states bluntly.

The figure rolls his eyes, and steps more into the light.

"Loki Laufeyson, God of Lies, Mischief, Chaos, and generally making life hard for people I don't like. Pleased to meet you. I'd rather like to know who you are, since you did collapse at my feet twelve hours ago, and I was obliged to heal you. Leaving you to die would be just plain rude, correct?"

The god grins at him. It's a wolf's smile, which doesn't quite reach his eyes, giving him an aura of madness and insanity. Bucky already thinks that 'Loki' is both terrifying and brilliant, and would be a powerful ally on The Quest for Steve. Because yes, his memory is returning to him faster and faster, the longer he's been away from HYDRA. Steve would know.

"I'm James Buchanan Barnes, formerly of the Howling Commandos. Call me Bucky. The people I like normally do. Thank you for saving my life." Bucky says with half-smile, extending a hand for the god to shake, which he does, and his hands are freezing cold, and marred with the scars and calluses that mark a warrior or assassin. Bucky has the feeling that Loki is both.

The god smiles again, this time more genuinely, and Bucky can tell these things, because Loki's eyes seem to twinkle a little more mischievously, and slightly less madly. Slightly. There's a difference, he decides there and then. A difference between mischief and madness. In a voice that Bucky is sure haunts the nightmares of many, Loki replies, tilting his head to one side.

"You're welcome, Bucky. Very welcome indeed. Now, you want to find Steve Rogers, correct?"