Seven days left
Loki was in the detached phase of sleep. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings, not really thinking about anything in particular. Not the memories of those days in New York, not the torture he had received from the Asgardian justice force- not even his impending execution. He felt as if he was suspended above the world, seeing without watching. Hearing without listening. Touching without feeling. It felt good- almost at peace. Almost.
As the first rays of sunshine streamed through the narrow gap in the stone wall that passed for a window, Loki became aware of the jarring pain that always accompanied a morning after another endless night in those cruel, cold cells. Immediately following his return to Asgard, the order came from the Allfather that he was only to receive the bare minimum of medical treatment. Odin always knew how to inflict pain, Loki thought bitterly. Tucking himself into a tight ball to conserve warmth, he swiveled his head to get a good view of every corner of his prison, as if somehow the conditions could have got better overnight. They hadn't.
The exactly cubical dimensions of the room remained. Just small enough to feel cramped in, but large enough to trigger a sense of despair and emptiness in its captive. A small hole in the corner served as a primitive waste disposal, and the only furniture was the thin blanket Loki crawled under every night in a futile effort to warm his chilled limbs. The blanket was, in fact, not originally included in the décor of his cell. It had been snuck in by the boy who took guard shift on Wednesday mornings. Loki remembered the ones that had been kind to him and the ones who had made him suffer in the loneliness of his dark confinement. His one hope was that he would be able to avenge the injustice inflicted on him before he was terminated.
0ooo0
The guilt was suffocating. Whilst the others had celebrated, Tony holed himself away. Sure, he attended enough events to appear his usual sociable self, but he always excused himself when they started discussing him. Thor always did the same, he noticed. The name felt like poison to his ears, but not exactly a completely poisonous poison- but more of a sort of drug, which made absolutely no sense. But then again, did anything? Did anything make sense in this messed up, unjust world? Tony shook his head. It was just the drink, he told himself. Just the drink.
His sole hope for an understanding ear was Thor, brother of him. The one person in this whole fucking place who might have some sort of insight into what he felt. He needed Thor, and some subconscious being told him that Thor needed him too. They were the only ones who could even begin to fathom what suffering they condemned him to. Which was how Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, came to be standing outside the bedroom door of a demigod at three a.m. in his boxers.
Thor came to the door, yawning, and looking vaguely like an oversize, Thor-shaped puppy. "Antony," he said, in what would have sounded like a whisper to Thor but was normal level for everyone else. Tony winced at the thought of the rest of the Scooby gang knowing that he had visited Thor in the dead of night. He shimmied past the muscled god into the bedroom without invitation, shutting the door on his way in.
"Nightmares again?" Thor asked.
Tony nodded in confirmation, and proceeded to bury his head in his hands. "They're getting worse. This time, I was in the cell with him. It was horrible, man. I could hear the rats. And he was there, he was caked in dried blood, and looked right at me with those damn green eyes and said, 'You did this to me.' And then I was him, I was in Manhattan, and it was me raising hell out there, only to me it made perfect sense why I was doing it. We were the bad guys." He raised his gaze and stared Thor in the eye, his mouth open a fraction. "We were the bad guys." He repeated, as much to himself as to Thor. Thor sat down next to Tony and the bed buckled under his weight.
"It's difficult, I know. You obviously care much for Loki." The name made Tony wince, but his thoughts were preoccupied with the suggestion Thor had brought up: could it be that he cared for him? The thought had never entered his mind before, and yet, it made perfect sense. Tony groaned. He cared about a dead man. Never a good plan.