Loki saw the barrel glaring at him, staring down its hollow length as, in the background, the soldier's eyes glistened, shining beside the butt of the rifle.
Until you see the whites of their eyes.
And so that advice became truth, when the pain ripped through Loki's shoulder like nothing he'd ever felt, tearing a hole through the leather straps at his chest and cotton cloth of his shirt as he was blasted back by both the shock and the momentum of the bullet. His blue cap was blown from his head as his back made contact with the soft, muddied ground, and he stilled upon it, wary of moving and alerting the soldier of his survival.
The Confederate glanced at him briefly, mud caking his dark hair and crimson splashes of blood dotting his ruddy cheeks as he stepped over Loki's body, rifle held tightly to his torso, running through and past the tree line behind them to seek out another Northern soldier.
There was a numbing effect, and Loki could no longer feel the wound, could no longer pinpoint the source of his pain, and instead was forced to focus on the searing, burning warmth spreading down his body and racing across his back. He could hear the gunshots all around him, the screams of the agonized and cries of the battle-ready, and he'd never felt so terrified, so involuntarily struck with horror, as in that moment, the sun bearing harshly down on him with its hot rays of sunlight and bright, overwhelming shine.
And then there was a face, splattered with mud water and specks of dirt, blood dripping from the cuts on his face, blue eyes bright as his form eclipsed the sun above Loki. His cap was gone, leaving his blond hair to fall in short, tangled locks, and he looked down at Loki with the brightest concern in his eyes, and one glance at his uniform told the Northerner one thing and one thing only, perhaps the most important thing to know.
Confederate.
He closed his eyes, holding his breath to pretend that he was dead, and in the next moment there were hands gripping his arms, and the instinct to fight and flee drove through Loki with sharp clarity, but he was too weak to even move as fresh pain washed over him at the contact, and a deep, tortured moan escaped his lips before darkness befell his thoughts.
It wasn't easy, convincing his body to wake after so long lying dormant, and he had to struggle to open his eyes, reluctant to witness fully the faint glow shining before his eyelids, detectable even when his eyes were closed. His lips parted with a great, shuddering breath, and Loki woke to see the dim, pulsing glow of the lantern at his bedside, and his palms flattened against the sheets beneath him.
"Hush, he's waking," came a soft, feminine voice from a distant place in the room, and he blinked, half-convinced that he was hearing things. Sitting up wasn't an option, if the throbbing pain that surfaced in his shoulder and throughout his arm when he tried was any indication, and so he fell back onto the downy pillows beneath him, taking slow, shaky breaths as the click of heels sounded against hardwood, and he turned, blurry shapes and silhouettes finally coming into focus.
The Confederate he'd seen before was standing beside his bed, arms crossed in concern and brow furrowed, and when he saw Loki wake his face lit up, a small, hesitant smile brightening his features. His soldier's uniform was replaced by a soft cotton shirt and wool trousers, and Loki saw that he wore something similar as he glanced down at himself, confused and trembling from the cold, even though the sweltering heat of the summer caused beads of sweat to roll down his face and pool at the dip in his revealed collarbone, his shirt tugged down to rest just below it. The man knelt down so that he was eye level with Loki, and his face was kind, even pleasant, as he smiled hospitably.
"I'm sure you're confused," he started slowly, and Loki noticed the strong, thick southern accent lurking beneath his words, "I'm Thor, and I'm a Confederate."
At the widening, fearfully, of Loki's eyes, he put his hands out, placating and hopeful, shaking his head.
"No, I won't hurt you. You're safe here." Loki swallowed thickly, his throat feeling like sandpaper, panting as his green eyes darted around the room searchingly.
"And where is here?" Thor laughed gently, and Loki winced as the pain returned in his limb.
"My house. You don't need to know where-in case they ask." Thor glanced down at his hands, as if reminded that he was doing something wrong, but his eyes spoke a different story, and, as if reassuring himself, he nodded slowly, wringing his hands together.
"Why…what happened?" Loki asked hastily, his memory one single, blurred collage of images and sounds.
"You were wounded, probably would have died if I hadn't seen you. I took you here, and my wife," Thor gestured to a woman behind him, cloaked by the shadows cast from the lantern's flickering light, and Loki squinted to see her as she stepped from the darkness, "took that damned bullet out of you, and sewed you up real nice."
There was a thick bandage wrapped around Loki's shoulder, and he dismissed his awareness of it when he saw Thor hold his hand out for his wife to take, and the light revealed her in a slow, near torturous kind of way as Loki's breath hitched. She took his hand, long, pale, slender fingers looking so delicate in Thor's calloused grip.
"My wife, Sif," Thor introduced both proudly and lovingly, and Loki could see why.
Sif had dark, silky hair with stray strands of ebony that tumbled in thick ringlets from the bun the rest of it was pinned up in, curled at the back of her head, her eyes bright in the dim lighting, grey oceans of emotion and stories and words that Loki desperately, suddenly, wanted to hear. Her dress was one of fine silk, white lace stretched over the skirt as pink embroidery looped upward at the bottom, fuchsia cloth stretched over the low collar that flattened against her chest, just beneath her collarbone. The sleeves hugged the span above her elbows, circled at the ends with cherry-colored fabric, and the white bodice hugged tightly to her slim waist. Her milky skin shone in the lantern light, and he stared at her, wide-eyed and captivated.
Thor returned his attention to Loki, after staring adoringly at his wife, and Loki made sure to be staring at him when the Confederate turned back around.
"Why?" Loki asked breathlessly, an effect brought on not entirely by the pain in his torso, and he forced himself not to stare back at Sif. Thor laughed, and it was a booming, merry sound that a soldier could simply just not possess, and Loki stared at him quizzically, ultimately curious.
"I hate this war; it needs to end. I haven't killed anyone yet, and I don't intend to. I wasn't just going to leave you there to die." At Loki's expression, one of equal parts confusion and disbelief, Thor smiled uneasily, the shine of memory bright in his warm gaze.
"I was drafted; I've never wanted to fight. Killing people like this, it's pointless. It's…" He trailed off, shaking his head sadly, and Sif moved behind him, her hoop skirt swaying back and forth with each step, and placed her hands on his shoulders comfortingly, her milky skin drawing Loki's gaze more than he liked.
"My husband prides himself on his compassion; it very well saved your life." Her voice, rich with emotion, carried the hint of sophistication, and, looking around him at the quality of the house and all within it, Loki guessed that he was staring at a wealthy couple.
But they were kind, and they had saved his life, and so Loki resisted the temptation to stare at Sif's red, enticing lips and imagine all the things he could do with them against his own.
Thor looked up at her and smiled, and Loki felt a sharp pang of jealousy slice through his gut at the love in Thor's unblinking, admiring gaze, and at the same time felt a sense of shame.
Here he was, alive only because a man had thought it necessary and morally right to save him, had done so from the kindness of his heart and goodness of his character, and Loki was already longing for his wife, longing for her in ways he'd never longed before, longing for her touch and her smile and her voice, and his pulse raced beneath the skin of his throat.
Based off a prompt given over on Tumblr.
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