A/N: This update is meant to fill-in the gaps between Jane's experiences with Loki's perspective. Italicized dialog narrates Loki's experiences, "~0~" represents switching perspective. WARNING for graphic descriptions of gore.
Loki leans against the tree outside Jane Foster's apartment complex, supporting himself against the rough bark as he stares at the ugly structure. The tall building rises up pitifully into the night sky as though it longs to reach heavenward in some meaningful fashion yet falls pathetically short. It seems like a good metaphor for his life.
He doesn't really know why he stands there. Why he watches through her window as she works late into the night. Surely, there are better and more beautiful things with which he might amuse himself?
He hates to admit it but the human confuses him. He can hardly believe that she, a mortal, somehow managed to influence the heir to Asgard's throne when his attempts to do the same have been met with derision. There is nothing valuable about her. Nothing meaningful. She is a worthless, weak, stupid creature whose life will be snuffed out in a heartbeat. Some angry part of him furiously demands to know why her counsel counts for more than his own.
After a moment of thought, he realizes he can simply ask her. He supposes the present night is as good as any and he is getting too tired to stand any longer...
~0~
The dead silence of midnight is disturbed as Jane Foster's heart pounds in her ears. Adrenaline thrums through her veins after turning to find a man reclining upon her couch who had, very definitely, not been there a second before. He was dead. She'd seen him die. Yet here he is, staring at her with cold and condescending eyes. When she rushes for the door, he doesn't even bother to turn his head from where it rests upon the cushion, merely following her with this gaze, snapping his fingers to click the lock.
Futile though it is, she furiously works the handle, pounding her fist upon the surface.
"Hello, Jane Foster." The Trickster God greets, undisturbed by her panic. His tone is flat and dead. It is not malicious, simply emotionless. "How do you fare?"
Her voice chokes in her throat until it is nothing more than a strained whisper.
"What are you doing here, Loki? I-I saw you die!"
He laughs softly. Though she could have imagined it, the action seems to cause him to wince every so slightly. "I merely wish to discuss something with you, Miss Foster. Surely, as a scientist, you have no objection to that? As for my death, I'm afraid that will have to wait."
Though she is terrified of his unpredictable and vicious personage, it does not look as though she has a choice. She swallows, her mouth works silently for a moment, trying to form a response.
"What did you want to discuss?"
There is a pause as he stares off into space, seemingly lost in thought, pondering his answer. The folds of his armor lift as he breathes, oddly, the movement seems somehow stilted.
"I want you to tell me about the time you spent with Thor."
She blinks. Of all the questions she might have guessed he would ask, this was not one of them.
"What do you want me to tell?" She says evasively. "There is not much to it, I've only seen him twice in four years."
His eyes pierce into her, appraising her from head to foot with an icy glare. Again, he does not bother to raise his head. Now that she looks at him, he almost seems weary, as though he lies upon the sofa out of necessity and not mere insolence
A bitter snarl permeates his reply: "And yet you've changed a millennia's worth of his arrogance and recklessness in a matter of days."
She cannot help herself, the retort flies out of her mouth before she can stop it: "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle 'black'?"
He glowers. "Not if the kettle was blackened first."
Her mouth opens to speak but he cuts her off before she can say anything. "—alas, I can see you are going to continue to be uncooperative. I bid you farewell, Miss Foster."
With that, he is gone.
Jane dives for her phone, frantically searching for the number to SHIELD. Right before hitting the call button, she freezes, realizing there is no proof that the God of Lies had really been in her apartment. As far as SHIELD was concerned, Loki died on Svartalfheim; she and Thor's testimony had corroborated that fact. If she were to call and tell them that, not only was Loki alive but she had seen him in her living room, they would question her sanity.
Thor has long since returned to Asgard and neither she, nor anyone else, can contact him. Without him as her advocate, SHIELD would most likely throw her in a mental hospital like Erik, if only to prevent her from causing mass public panic.
With a fearful glance back at the now-empty sofa, she ruefully hits the lock button on her phone, setting it back down on the coffee table. She would not be any good to anyone if she was imprisoned in a psych ward. Hell, she is only partially sure the encounter was real. Perhaps it was just a waking dream…
~0~
Of course, the little mortal harlot is uncooperative! She is stubborn and stupid like Thor himself. What a perfect pair! He growls in anger, slamming his fist into the wall of the alleyway to which he has teleported.
Loki winces as his chest and shoulder twinge. The bandages feel sticky beneath his clothes; apparently, the flesh has pulled open, again. He knows it is getting worse. Magic may have pulled the ruined flesh back together but it seems the threads of that power are unraveling. He coughs on the rank night air and tastes blood on his tongue. Loki clenches his jaw and swallows back the taste as he fixes his eyes on the moon above.
A part of him is beginning to suspect the wound is never going to heal.
His question remains unanswered and it continues to burn in his mind as days come and go.
Earth is the only realm upon which he can hide and he has no one left. No one but Thor, who thinks him dead. On Svartalfheim, he had been forced to confront the possibility of a world without his adopted brother and he realized that was not the world he wanted. Loki never intended to take the Kursed's blow but he does not regret it because Thor is still alive and that is all that really mattered to him. He lost Frigga. He would have gladly been damned before he would have lost the only other person whose life still counts for something in his eyes.
His breast pointedly aches at the memory; the twin gouges on his back and sternum are reopening more every day and he can feel himself losing strength. It is a stark reminder of how his life has gone so horribly wrong.
As he had laid gasping and bleeding in Thor's embrace, he had felt loved for the first time in years.
The mere fact that Thor had rushed to embrace his broken body shocked him. It occurred to him then that he hardly knew the man in whose arms he would die. The brother he had known well in boyhood was now little better than a stranger. A pang, a longing for reconciliation, had pierced him through as deeply as the blade that would kill him. His soul had agonized, wondering what had so drastically changed the person he called "brother." He wanted to talk, simply talk. To ask Thor what had so altered his priggishness, to demand to know how it was that a meaningless mortal had persuaded him to see the error of his ways when he, himself, had been brushed aside.
There had not been enough time and, unfortunately, it is too late now. His brother loves him better dead. He can hardly disappoint Thor by turning up alive. He only revealed himself to Jane because he knows she is powerless to do anything against him. Thor now rules Asgard and hardly has the time to trouble himself with mortal love affairs, it is not likely he will return to earth anytime soon. At this point, Loki cares little for the consequences of his curiosity. Though it is not his preference to fall into the custody of some human government, any torture they might inflict would be mild in comparison with the rest of the universe.
Jane is the only person who might be able to fill in the gaps, to offer him closure, to explain the man Thor has become. Fruitless though their last encounter was, Loki has nothing else left. With that thought in his mind, he decides it is time to pay Jane Foster another visit.
~0~
A month passes without incident and Jane decides that the whole encounter with Loki was either a dream or some kind of illusory scenario concocted by her tired mind and a misplaced sense of guilt for his death.
She is in the middle of washing dishes when a soft, purring voice appears in her ear, the speaker's breath tickling her neck.
"Greetings, Jane."
She screams in fright and the porcelain plate she'd been washing shatters on the floor. She whirls around, her elbow colliding with the intruder's sternum. A familiar, strangled gasp echoes sharply in the cramped kitchen.
"Loki!" She yelps, turning to see him clutching his chest. He staggers to grasp the counter behind him for support, staring at her in pain as his knuckles go white gripping the edge of the wood.
Something is very wrong. She knows she didn't hit him hard enough to cause that kind of reaction. She moves toward him without thinking. "What is it? What's wrong?" She demands, impulsively reaching out to steady him. He flinches away from her, breathing heavily as he attempts to straighten his hunched posture. He seems even more pale than she remembered.
"A good deal many things are wrong with me, Jane Foster. You'll have to be more specific." He says, sarcastically, his voice strained with pain. Her heartbeat has begun to even out and, instead of fear, she feels anger creeping up within her. "I know that!" She snaps. "But I shouldn't be able to hurt you!"
He seems to hesitate for a moment, as though some part of him wants desperately to confide in her some grave secret. As he draws himself up to full height, it is obvious that he is strongly favoring his right side. The hesitancy abates almost as quickly as it appears and his eyes harden once more as he looks down upon her.
"Goodbye, Jane." He says with strange finality.
He is gone in a blink, leaving no evidence that he had ever been there. Jane stands there, staring at the spot from which he has just disappeared, trying to process the meaning of the strange encounter.
~0~
Loki never planned to come back after their last pointless (and painful) encounter. The humiliation of Jane witnessing his weakness shredded whatever scraps of dignity he had tried to maintain. Nonetheless, her instinctive attempt to reach for him as he faltered had also caused a faint twinge in his emotions that he did not want to examine too carefully. When she'd demanded to know what was wrong, he had almost wanted to tell her the truth. After all, there was nobody else to care.
Somehow, he now finds himself staggering to his knees on the cold tile of her bathroom. His hands shake as he braces himself against the wall and begins to retch painfully into the toilet. Pain shoots through his back, protesting the weight he is habitually placing on his mangled shoulder.
His body shivers in the darkened room as he slumps over the porcelain fixture waiting for his stomach to stop roiling. The pungent smell of vomit and blood fill the air, bile burning his tongue and throat. The energy binding his ruined flesh is deteriorating, allowing blood to leak into his stomach and inducing intense, unrelenting nausea.
The need to vomit had been overwhelming but his injuries made the act itself quite painful. He had resisted the urge for as long as he had been able but, eventually, he had known he could no longer endure its misery. Loki is accustom to attending to his physical needs in public spaces but he is too tired and too weak to allow himself to be so vulnerable in the open where cruel, vile humans might come upon him. Jane's apartment is the only place of relative safety that was within his ability to reach.
The sour flavor of bloody bile remains on his tongue as he flushes the toilet and tries to rise on shaking legs. He stumbles over to the sink and turns on the faucet hoping to wash the taste of death from his mouth.
~0~
Two weeks later, she awakens in the middle of the night to the sound of retching coming from her master bath. By this time, she has a pretty good guess as to who could enter her apartment without causing a disturbance or having a key and she is certain she is not imagining his presence.
Careful to mask the soft padding of her footsteps, Jane makes her way to the door of the bathroom; the light remains off but the toilet flushes and she can hear the faucet being gently turned on. It is clear that the occupant is trying their best to remain quiet, futile though the effort may be. The door creaks as she slowly pushes it open.
The now-familiar figure of a man is bent over the sink, apparently rinsing out his mouth. She is careful not to startle him as she steps through the door.
"Hello, Loki." She greets gently.
He whirls around unsteadily, hastily wiping his lips on a white cloth as she flicks on the light. She can clearly see his hands shaking as he shrinks from her, blinking owlishly. His left arm is hanging limply at his side.
She decides not to press the issue of any of their previous encounters and instead, try for diplomacy. "Here," Jane offers, gesturing to the towel gripped in his quivering hand, "let me take that." A puzzled expression crosses his features, nonetheless, he hands her the cloth. It is covered in reddish stains that look suspiciously like blood.
"There is bread in the kitchen if you need something to settle your stomach." She says neutrally, turning as if to go back to bed.
He stares at her in stunned silence, the harsh light from the vanity revealing just how gaunt his features have become. He is clearly very ill and getting weaker. She finds it difficult to turn away as the memory of him throwing her out of the way of Kurse's grenade rises to the forefront of her mind. For all that he has done, he saved her life. Even if it is not worth much, it is worth something.
She hesitates, her eyes darting to meet his. "Let me…" She pauses a moment, reticent to finish the impulsive sentence. "…let me know if you need something, okay?" She can hear his ragged breathing hitch in surprise as she turns and walks back to bed, tossing the towel in the laundry basket.
Though she does not sleep, she never hears another sound. The next morning, she notices a single bagel missing from the fresh bag on the kitchen counter. Apparently, he had accepted that part of her offer.
When she goes to do laundry, she finds the wash cloth from the night before at the top of the pile. At that moment, a realization hits her: the fresh blood is all the proof she needs that Loki is still alive.
Jane is hit with an odd feeling of guilt as she reaches for her phone. Although she knows she shouldn't feel allegiance to a murderer, she also knows what she is about to do will implicitly betray his trust. She had all but invited him into her home the night before and now she was going to send SHIELD to hunt him down.
As the number rings in her ear, she reminds herself that her momentary act of pity was prior to her having the ability to prove to the authorities that he still lived. She has never asked for any of this, he is the one who has forced his way into her home; no matter what condition he's in, he's dangerous and a wanted criminal.
A voice sounds on the other end of the line as one of Agent Coulson's former assistants answers the phone.
"Hello? It's Jane Foster, I have urgent information for SHIELD…"
~0~
Loki thought a simple walk through the human city would cause him no trouble. He had not accounted for the overpowering wooziness that has begun to come and go with his ever-increasing blood loss.
His feet slip on the snowy sidewalk as his head swims with a sudden wave of dizziness. He catches himself on a ragged brick wall, gasping as the action prompts needles of pain to pierce through him; Loki coughs as blood teases at the back of his throat.
People wander by heedlessly, ignoring his presence. Although he has rendered himself invisible, the energy it costs him to maintain the illusion has taken a toll. Loki knows his underclothes are thoroughly stained in red. The hole through his chest cavity has become a cavernous maw and is bleeding far too freely. He knows he is dying.
Elven sorcery is dark and foreign to anything he has ever studied. His own powers are unable to cope with the vicious force slowly tearing his body apart. He supposes he deserves a slow death but things would have been far simpler had he died the first time. He, himself, does not know why the tenebrous magic sealed his wounds only to slowly let them fall apart. He only knows that his end is fast approaching.
His mind flashes to the memory of Jane's foolhardy request that he let her know should he "need something." Though he might have scoffed at the idea of "needing" anything from a human, right now, he desperately needs to lie down.
Loki thinks longingly of the soft couch in Jane's nearby apartment. He knows that he frightens her, yet, she still extended her, apparently genuine, kindness. Although her actions confuse him, they are undoubtedly sincere. Even if she does wish him harm, he trusts that she fears his wrath too much to do anything.
The edges of his vision begin to tinge with darkness and necessity makes his decision for him.
He slumps against the wall as he materializes in the hallway of Jane's apartment; if not for the drywall, he might lose his balance. He can hear her voice drifting out the open bedroom door.
She has her back turned his way and appears to be heatedly arguing with someone on her phone. After a few moments, a flood of rage chases the lightheadedness away as Loki realizes that he is the subject matter of Jane's conversation. Although he will never admit it, beneath the murderous anger is a stab of hurt that had nothing to do with his physical wounds.
His brother's whore is trying to turn him over to her government.
The little Midgardian bitch has deceived him. And he, the God of Lies, fell for it! It is his own fault. He should know better than to believe her pretended concern. Really, he could hardly have expected anything else from the mousy woman. Has he really become so pathetic that he grovels for scraps of pity from his brother's mortal conquests?!
Loki's jaw clenches as he resists the sudden urge to snap her neck. It will not do for him to kill her while SHIELD is still on the other end of the line. Fortunately for him, it does not appear as though the agent on Jane's phone is listening.
~0~
A week has passed and Jane is simply furious: she has been repeatedly informed that there is no genetic information on file to which the sample she had could be compared. Though the blood is clearly alien, there is no way of determining to whom it belongs.
Per agreements with Asgard, no genetic information on any Asgardian subject was held on file by SHIELD or any other human agency. Jane is stunned that a shadow agency would agree to, much less honor, those terms but that is what has been spelled out for her several times over. She can't believe it.
Agent Coulson's replacement is far less competent than she would have hoped. Unfortunately, she has no other numbers to call.
Perhaps they are simply in denial or think she is crazy, either way, she is enraged by their seeming indifference to her pleas for them to at least send surveillance to her home-she hangs up the phone when the agent suggests she come in for a psychiatric evaluation. After thinking better of it, she calls back only to discover the number has been disconnected.
With that, she is out of numbers to call.
Her blood runs cold when she turns around to see a shadowy figure looming against the doorframe of her bedroom, armor glinting in the shadows.
"So much for your pretenses of compassion." He hisses coolly. "Very well played."
Her heart races as he steps toward her and sweat beads on her face. She is trapped. There is nowhere to run and nothing to be done but face him. She cowers into the corner as he advances. "You need not be afraid, mortal." He spits, his ashen face lined with betrayal. "You'll outlive me, yet..."
He gasps out the last word as though struggling to breathe, a choking noise bubbles up in his throat and he coughs into his hand. Though he attempts to hide it, when he draws his fingertips away from his mouth they are clearly covered in fresh blood.
Perhaps his apparent frailty emboldens her, or perhaps she has an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, whatever the reason, Jane finds herself asking him a question, her voice soft and terrified:
"Why did you come back?"
He stares at her with a blank expression, his stature tense with slow simmering anger. They are almost touching as he towers over her, the air around his body is oddly cool. He regards her unreadably for a moment before replying.
"I 'needed' something." He says pointedly, baring bloodstained teeth as he stresses the terms she had used. An undercurrent of hurt takes the venom from his tone as he turns her previous words against her.
She stares up at him, her eyes wide and afraid before eventually finding her voice. "I'm sorry, Loki but I didn't ask for this, any of this. You…I mean…I couldn't just—"
A dangerous glint comes into his eyes as he looms over her.
"'Couldn't just' what? Let me go unpunished? I assure you that has already been taken care of!" His voice is growing louder and more vicious; a semblance of color is working its way into his face as Jane curls into herself for fear of his wrath. "You think I do not know what I have done? That I do not suffer for it? Why can you not just let me...let m-"
She looks up as his voice falters. To Jane's alarm, Loki's eyes roll and his knees give way beneath his weight. She instinctively catches him, breaking his fall and lowering his limp weight to the ground. She quickly backs away from his body, adrenaline pounding in her veins.
For a moment, all she can do is stare at the being lying prostrate on her bedroom carpet, unsure of what to do. Killing him is simply not an option. Helpless though he seems, she doubts that a mortal such as herself is able. He has gone head-to-head with Thor and seemingly come out no worse for wear. Jane doesn't think she could even bring herself to do it in the first place.
She can flee and leave him or stay and attempt to help him.
If she runs and he recovers, Jane knows he will hunt her down. She swallows hard at the thought of his wrath. Her mind flashes back to the night she had offered him kindness, weighing her alternatives. He had seemed stunned. Jane considers the memory, concluding that there is a chance, however small, that compassion may defuse his present anger.
She knows there really is only one choice, no matter how much it scares her.
Jane grabs a pillow from the bed and awkwardly places it under his head. She hesitates a moment before beginning to examine the folds of his archaic clothing, undoing the complex row of small buckles that fasten the outer layers of his leather tunic over the mail peaking out beneath. Although she has her suspicions about the cause of his fainting spell, she cannot help him without removing the armor.
She freezes as he begins to stir.
His eyelids flicker open and he looks up at her, then down at the open folds of leather. A look of rage crosses his face and his hand shoots out to grasp a handful of her hair, forcing her terrified face down toward his own.
"How. Dare. You!" He growls as the veins in his neck throb with anger. "Am I not dying fast enough for you?!"
"I'm trying to help you, not kill you!" She cries, trying her best to remain calm and to placate his defensive anger. It is true what they say, there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal; there is death in his eyes and she thinks it is miracle he hasn't killed her. She forces herself to take a breath, fighting back the terror mounting within her. Her mind races, desperate to think of a way to tame his aggression.
"Loki," She begins, her voice soothing and calm, "When the Kursed ran you through, it wasn't an illusion, was it?" Even with her head wrenched at an angle, her voice grows softer and she tentatively reaches out to gently place her palm over the leather and cloth covering his chest where the terrible wound would have been.
His eyes follow her hand and he flinches instinctively. She feels his grip on her loosen: "I'm right, aren't I?" She asks quietly. His facial expression softens into something of abject misery as his fingers disentangle from her hair. "I swear, I was only trying to figure out what was wrong." She explains, meeting his gaze, which has gone from hateful to searching.
After a moment, he slowly lays his head back against the pillow, turning to glance at the cushion she had placed beneath him with a look of surprise. "I am sorry, Jane." He wheezes, turning his eyes back to her. "I know you speak the truth." His voice is oddly quiet. "Honestly," he continues more somberly, "I do not blame you for contacting SHIELD, I would do the same."
For a moment, she is stunned to hear what sounds like a sincere apology. "Don't worry about it." She reassures, her voice is awkward with confusion as she hesitantly places a comforting hand on his bicep. "I wouldn't trust me, either." It honestly surprises her that he allows her to touch him. "But may I at least look at it?"
He laughs weakly. "That assumes there is something that can be done, which, I assure you, there is not." Jane sighs, her brown tresses falling about her face as she kneels beside him. "It is not as though you have anything to lose." He glances up at her and smiles bitterly. "Truer words were never spoken, Miss Foster…Very well, I shall remove the armor, however, if you areplanning to turn me over to SHIELD, at least let me 'get my shirt on' first." His dark attempt at humor falls flat and she finds herself averting her eyes in something akin to shame.
With a sigh and a flourishing wave of his hand, the layers of leather, cloth and metal vanish from his upper body. She gags as the smell of blood fills her nostrils. The Elven spear had, indeed, run him all the way through, punching straight through his rib cage and piercing clean out his back. Jane distantly realizes Loki is bleeding on her fresh carpet. She also realizes that she cannot bring herself to care.
The gaping wound allows her to see within his chest cavity where fragile organs quiver and pulse. His ruined heart beats sluggishly, sliced lungs expanding and contracting with every pained breath. A shimmering sheen of what she can only assume is magic seems to encase the shredded tissues, holding them together as rivulets of blood ooze from his body.
"Oh, my God." She whispers hoarsely. Jane had been expecting a wound that never healed, not a fresh death blow. The fact that he still lives despite the mortal injury is a patently obvious reminder that he is not human.
She stares in awe to think that the painfully vulnerable personage before her nearly brought the earth to its knees. Their eyes meet and he looks up at her with resignation, as though the gaping hole through his torso is somehow trivial. "Why didn't this kill you?" She asks quietly. A distant look washes over his countenance. "I thought it had… then I woke up..." He laughs humorlessly, causing butchered lungs to visibly heave within his chest. "…apparently, the length of one's suffering from a Kursed blade is determined by the weight of guilt on one's soul."
Jane cannot tell if he is being facetious or not. She simply sits back, still gaping in horror. A part of her wants to touch it, if only to prove to herself that it is not one of his illusions, it seems so surreal to see him breathing and talking with such a grievous injury. "Now do you see that I am right?" He asks darkly. "There is nothing to be done, Miss Foster. The wound is cursed and so am I. Now, it is only a matter of time."
With another wave of his hand, the armor is replaced and he begins to stiffly sit up. She gently places her hands on his shoulder plates, pushing him down. "I don't think so, mister. You passed out on my floor once, I'm not having a repeat performance." He firmly grasps her wrists, tugging them away. She notices idly that the grip of his left hand, though solid, is noticeably weaker than his right.
"Thank you for your concern." He says with cold politeness. "But I refuse to stay and wait to be turned over to your government." Once again, it is as though he abruptly pops out of existence before her very eyes.
She can still feel the weight of his hands about her wrists as she stares at the red stain blooming on her carpet. Although she pities him, relief floods through her in the hope that he won't come back. Dying or not, he terrifies her.
~0~
The last thing he registers before everything goes black is the feeling of something arresting his fall. He realizes in retrospect that the "something" must have been Jane.
Loki doesn't know why he does not kill her after regaining consciousness and finding her removing the armor that shields his wounds. He doesn't know why he hesitates or why he shows her what he has kept hidden beneath the armor.
It is pitiful, really. As she touches him in an effort to soothe his anger, her hand somehow manages to rest itself directly above his tattered heart. Her touch is so gentle, so caring. Though he winces as he feels the laceration smart under the pressure of her palm, it is not unpleasant; the last gentle touch he felt was Thor's when they had both thought he was about to die.
To have her tenderly cupping his wounds cools the anger burning within him. After going so long without physical contact, even the touch of a human is stirring. When he lays his head back and finds it resting upon her pillow, the last vestiges of rage melt away.
He understands why Jane fears him, why she reported his presence to her government. He can hardly blame her for her fright. He has caused the deaths of hundreds of members of her race and she personally saw him kill on Svartalfheim. What amazes and confuses him is that, in spite of her fright, in spite of what she has told SHIELD, she is somehow still willing to ease his pain and make him comfortable.
He knows she has been trying to placate him out of self-preservation but, beneath her self-interest, Jane's unnecessary gentleness betrays a level of genuine pity.
When she insists that he allow her to see the perforation, a misanthropic mood overtakes him.
Why not humor her?
Weakened though he is, he knows he can easily overpower her. A small part of him simply wants someone, anyone, to care; even a Midgardian. Thusly, he lets her see him as he really is, without the impressive regalia: frail, bleeding and broken.
He is surprised when she bids him to stay; though his weary body longs to remain where it lies, he knows Jane might still hand him over to her authorities. Loki is well aware that death will soon find him but he still prefers not to end his days in the clutches of primitive Midgardian torturers. For that reason, he flees her company.
Nonetheless, some irrational part of her still dares to hope that some of her concern is real.
~0~
For some time, all is quiet and Jane begins to push the encounter with Loki out of her mind. Then, about two months later, Jane starts to get the strange feeling that things in her apartment are being moved.
When she comes home, she finds a book on a shelf where she knows she didn't leave it, a water glass in the sink that she doesn't remember using or sometimes, she simply gets the odd sense that she is not alone; little things that could be easily explained away under different circumstances.
She never sees him and Jane wonders if it isn't all just something she has concocted in her head, or if, perhaps Loki is attempting to gaslight her. Either way, although it constantly niggles at the back of her mind, she doesn't feel directly threatened.
There is no solid proof until, one morning, she notices dried blood on the freshly cleaned bathroom tile. Her mind immediately turns to the last person she remembers hemorrhaging on the carpeting of her bedchamber. She knows she has not recently injured herself and no one else has been in her home by invitation.
The stains begin to appear more frequently, usually in the bathroom but sometimes in other places. Either he has grown more careless, or he is having more trouble managing the bleeding. Whatever the case may be, she knows it isn't all in her head. As long as he doesn't do any harm, she finds that she does not mind all that much. She can't prove anything to the authorities, anyway.
~0~
Loki knows time is running out and, if he were capable of being less of a coward, he would stop the clock himself. He just cannot bring himself to do it. It might spare him the agony of a slow death but deep down he finds he does not truly want to die. Not now, not alone, not when Thor's forgiveness might have been within his grasp.
His brother still loves him. That simple fact sends pain shooting through his heart that goes far deeper than the Kursed's spear. He has thought about trying to contact Thor many times but finds that he does not truly want to know how Thor would react to the news that he is not yet the corpse everyone thinks him to be.
It is easier if he leaves his legacy having died a tragic, grandiose death, not slowly wasting away choking on his own blood.
Loki distracts himself from the haunting morbidity by studying Midgardian science. Earth, he has discovered, is actually a rather interesting place. It has changed drastically from when he and Thor had visited it in boyhood. The ways in which humans have begun to unlock the scientific secrets of the universe are woefully primitive, yet, fascinating. His curiosity has driven him to spend his time studying the strange planet and, secretly, he has come to marvel at the humans' creativity, especially that of the mortal scientist in whose apartment he has taken refuge.
At that moment, he leans into the couch to relieve the strain on his back as he thumbs through a book on astrophysics he has taken from Jane's shelf—it is, apparently, something she wrote herself. He has tried to stay away from her apartment. Truly. He has. But it is getting harder for him to constantly wander from place to place. He simply does not have the strength. The relentless pain is exhausting, in and of itself; when coupled with malnutrition and blood loss, there are days when he can barely stand.
Today is one of those days.
Jane's home is the only place that affords him any sense of comfort. If nothing else, her schedule is familiar and he knows she poses no threat. He can safely rest in her abode while she is away and leave before she returns. Though it is simple enough for him to find accommodations, it is imprudent for him to remain in any one place for a significant length of time.
He is exhausted but can hardly sleep. He had thought that, perhaps, the peaceful safety of Jane's flat might allow him to slip away from the waking world but he has given up on that hope. Every breath is heavy and gasping; the binding force on his broken ribcage has weakened to the point that the fragmented pieces are allowing muscle, organ and bone to grind together.
He closes the book on his lap and places it on the coffee table. Perhaps, he can rest his eyes for just a moment…
~0~
The next weekend, Jane goes out for beers with Darcy after work. They stay out late, drinking, talking and laughing until they bid farewell in the cab ride home.
Her head swimming pleasantly with alcohol, Jane stumbles through the door of her apartment in an unusually good mood. She staggers past the living room on the way to bed and pauses upon hearing a noise that can best be described as someone compulsively gasping for air.
Curious, her sense of fear dulled by inebriation, she goes toward the sound.
A familiar tall, dark shape lies asleep on her couch, their breaths coming in pained wheezes. Jane's drunken self internally scolds her for being such a poor host as to leave a guest to sleep without a blanket; feeling sufficiently ashamed, she stumbles down the hall to grab one from her closet.
She returns, clumsily rounding the sofa to throw the heavy, warm fabric over his long body. He grunts softly as the weight nestles on his torso, eyes fluttering open. "Jane…?" He wheezes groggily, his hand fisting around the soft blanket, confused as to how it got there. Out of habit, he attempts to sit up only to hiss in pain, reminded of why he lies there in the first place.
"Hullo, Loki, I se' you'v' finally showed y'rs'lf…" She slurs. "Are y' g-going t' kill me?" She asks bluntly.
He looks up at her, utterly confused "I...wasn't planning on it." He finally replies perplexedly, concerned by her strangely lackadaisical behavior. A moment later, a look of recognition crosses his eyes, her symptoms suddenly adding up in his mind. "Miss Foster..." He says slowly, coughing softly before continuing, "…I believe you are intoxicated…Perhaps you should go to bed…?"
His worry barely registers with her as she hums in acknowledgment. "I w'll 'n a m'ment…" She assures him. She is swaying on her feet, her unfocused gaze resting on his starved physique; he seems thinner than her muddled brain remembers. "When w's th' last time you ate?" She asks out of the blue.
A resigned sigh issues from his wounded lungs. "I find that most sustenance is…a bit disagreeable with having…a hole in one's stomach, Miss Foster."
She simply stares down at him unsteadily for a moment, processing his words before offering a soft, garbled reply. "I'm v'ry sorry" She says sincerely. If she had been sober, she would have seen his eyes widen, surprised by her genuine expression of sympathy.
Satisfied with herself, she turns and lurches back to her own room and into the bathroom, deciding that a hot bath sounds absolutely wonderful. She undresses awkwardly before climbing into the tub, hot water swelling around her languid limbs.
She does not know how long she stays there, but the water has grown cold and Jane is very sleepy when she finally decides to get out. As she stands to step out, she feels suddenly dizzy. The room begins to spin and Jane's foot slips on the slick tile outside the bathtub. As the world fades to black, she grabs at the shower curtain but it is not enough stop her from falling face first onto the floor with a crash as the shower rod and curtain come down on top of her.
For a moment, she lies there unconscious before slowly awakening in a stupor.
After a few seconds, she notices that someone is calling her name. Her hazy brain urges her to get up as she realizes there is another person kneeling beside her, running their hands over her head and torso to feel for injuries. Apparently convinced she is not too badly hurt, her companion pulls her gracelessly to her feet and begins to half drag and carry her to her bed. He is panting heavily and muffles a groan as she falls into him for support.
Her intoxicated brain wonders why he's the one who sounds like he's in pain, after all, she's the one who fell!
They make it to the bed and he helps her to lie down before tucking the blankets around her naked body. A moment later, she is fast asleep.
~0~
When he awakens to the sensation of a blanket falling over him, his muddled brain thinks for just a moment that it is Frigga tucking him in after a bad dream. He is wrong, of course, but he is no less surprised to see who has covered him. Jane is clearly more than a little inebriated, evoking an unexpected pang of concern for her wellbeing.
He tries to sit up only to run into a wall of stabbing pain. After that, it suddenly does not seem worth it to rise. He had not meant to be so careless as to allow Jane to see him, nonetheless, sleep deprivation has finally caught up to him. He never expected to see her so relaxed in his company. It is unsettling but not wholly unwelcome.
Something soft and pained twists within his heart to know that, in a moment where she is incapable of anything but utter transparency, the human cares for him; she doesn't run away, she doesn't panic, she simply tries to keep him warm. There is nothing for her to gain by her actions, he had been helpless and oblivious to the world, she was under no obligation or compulsion to be kind, yet, she has been exactly that. Her drunken sympathy means more to him than he will ever dare to admit.
After she stumbles away, Loki relaxes into the warm embrace of the blanket and couch cushions. He considers trying to leave but finds, for the first time, that he does not think it necessary. Jane has been given every opportunity to harm him yet she had not done so.
The sound of running water reaches his ears and quickly begins to lull him to sleep. He slips back into a light doze until a sickening crash brings another rude awakening. His eyes fly open and his heart beats a struggling staccato in anticipation of danger. The house is silent. There is no immediate threat.
A sudden thought commands his attention.
Jane!
Agonizing though it is, he hauls himself to his feet, adrenaline overwhelming his weakness as he moves toward the sound.
A sickening feeling sweeps over him upon finding her naked body prone upon the bathroom floor. Loki urgently calls her name as he moves to kneel at her side and begins checking for injuries. He relaxes when she begins mumbling in response to his ministrations. As far as he can tell, the foolish human is fine.
Jane clumsily tries to get up but quickly slips back to the floor. He automatically catches her, grunting under the strain. Though Loki could have easily lifted her under normal circumstances, maimed as he is, the effort of supporting her body weight is almost too much. She intuitively clings to him, grappling his frame for balance.
Loki gasps with the effort of holding her, even though it will undoubtedly hurt, he needs to get her into her bed. With some effort, he pulls her to her feet and begins the process of hauling her teetering frame toward her room. His choking breaths paint his mouth with moist blood as he drags her; he fights back the urge to groan as she promptly stumbles into his chest, traumatizing his brutalized body.
Eventually, he is able to maneuver Jane into the bed and lay the comforter over her. He doubts she will remember the night and if she does, she will probably think it was only a dream...
~0~
When Jane awakens sore and stiff the next morning, she vaguely remembers having fallen but everything else after she left the bar with Darcy remains a blur. Although she thinks it odd that she did not bother to dress before going to bed, nothing seems particularly amiss, although she does wonder why, exactly, her drunk self had put the extra blanket on the living room couch and her book on the coffee table.
~0~
Loki curses his heart as it stubbornly continues to beat; he especially wishes damnation upon his lungs which keep obnoxiously sucking for air, causing him to choke. Unable to breathe, Loki falls to his knees on the filthy carpet of his rented room. He is wracked with a horrendous coughing fit which soon devolves into his heaving the contents of his belly on the floor of the sleazy motel in which he is staying.
It has been days since he has been able to keep down any meaningful sustenance so all that remains in his stomach is his own blood, he had all but forgotten until the red substance had come pouring out of his mouth.
His retching eventually ceases and for a while he simply lies on the cheap, disgusting carpet: weak, aching, cold and starving. His body barely has the energy to shiver with the chills running down his spine. He has given up on bearing the weight of his customary leather and metal armor and now sports little more than his thin tunic which does nothing to ease the cold that seems to pierce down to the marrow of his bone.
The sloppy bandages around his torso itch horrendously, Loki knows he needs to change them but lacks the strength and range of motion to complete the task. He supposes it doesn't really matter, his wound will kill him, regardless. The thought calls to mind memories of Thor and the bandages they'd worn as a result of mishaps during their childhood adventures. Of Frigga who soothed away his boyhood tears. He even thinks of Odin, who had once called him "son."
They are gone. He will never see them again. He has failed them all, he has failed himself. His last words to Thor had been that he was sorry and he had meant it in a thousand ways. His life is coming to a pitiful close and his dreams of illustrious glory lay in tatters.
It takes him a moment to realize tears are leaking from his eyes.
Then he thinks of Jane, of her gentle touch and the blanket she laid atop his shivering form. The mortal cared. She was scared but she had still taken pity on him. She is the only consolation he has left and he misses her. Pathetic though it is, he aches for her nonthreatening presence. The human may be stupid, short-lived and primitive, but he finds her company somehow soothing. Though Thor's affections for the mortal remain a mystery to him, Loki has to admit that she is fascinating and far more intellectually advanced than he would have previously expected.
He supposes it cannot do any harm to visit her, besides, he does not know much longer he will have the strength...
~0~
She is cooking breakfast several weeks after going out with Darcy when a shadowy figure catches her attention, lurking in the corner of her eye.
By this time, his haunting and unnerving presence is almost routine…almost.
Her eyes remain firmly fixed on the eggs she is beating in an attempt to master her spiking anxiety in his company. Jane manages a soft "Good morning", addressing her companion with as much nonchalance as she is able.
When he replies, his ragged voice is barely recognizable. "That…is a matter of opinion." She pauses to glance his way with concern. As her eyes appraise his frail-looking form, she gasps involuntarily. The Trickster is leaning against her counter as though it is the only thing keeping him on his feet, his eyes are bloodshot and his face hollow with the hallmarks of starvation. His customary armor has disappeared and he now wears nothing but a thin tunic which hangs grotesquely from his consumptive frame.
"Loki…" She says his name with uncertainty, concern lacing her voice even as she keeps her distance. "…you look horrible." He smirks faintly, wincing as he breathes. "Why…thank you." He gasps sarcastically.
"You look like you're about to drop dead!" She exclaims. The shadow of mirth disappears from his expression and his eyes regard her with a look of pain. "…I may…" He murmurs. His voice dies away and he begins to cough harshly into his sleeve. Drops of dark blood soak into the green fabric and his entire torso heaves with every choking breath as he doubles over in distress.
Jane hesitates for a split second before catching him by the elbow to stabilize him. She is startled when he leans into her for support as she helps him into a chair. Jane kneels beside him as he presses a hand over his heart, his breaths finally steadying. "Is there anything I can do?" She asks softly. He regards her with a look of guarded apprehension.
"I mean it, Loki. Let me help you." Though she doesn't trust him, she cannot stand his suffering.
His face screws up in pain and a subtle groan echoes in his throat. "I...told you...before…I am…beyond help." She pauses for a moment, her eyes flickering with frustration. "There has to be something that can, at least, ease the pain." His eyes grow soft and serious for just a moment. "Your company is…c-comfort enough…" He gasps.
She gapes at him, stunned by the honest, humble admission.
Their eyes meet and she feels as though they are really seeing one another for the first time. It scares her and she feels herself instinctively shrinking from him. "Even now...do I still…frighten you?" He asks weakly, noticing her withdrawal. She hesitates a moment before offering a faint reply, cringing with internal shame. "...a little..." His gaze pierces into her eyes, full of intense sorrow. "Jane…It is not my desire…to torment you." The sincerity in his voice stuns her. "I will take my leave...before I burden you any further." "No! Wait!" She cries, reaching for him as he disappears, only to discover that she is too late.
After that morning, the odd occurrences in her apartment come to an abrupt end.
~0~
He had never meant to frighten her. He had known that she feared him but he had assumed his obvious show of frailty would have made it apparent to Jane that he would not and could not hurt her.
Apparently, he had been wrong.
He cannot bring himself to stay knowing his presence makes her walk on the edge of fright. He has learned the meaning of fear under the burning touch of the Other and he has no desire to inflict that same undercurrent of terror on the delicate mind of a human. Loki throws caution to the wind and checks into another vile human motel without the intention of leaving. He no longer cares if SHIELD finds him. Death will soon have her way with him, regardless.
As weeks pass, his health continues to deteriorate.
The pain soon grows hot and sharp, almost like it had been the first time he'd felt the Elven spear pierce his flesh. He had been abandoned to die as an infant and now he is an adult dying alone. It seems his life has come full circle. Odin had been right: his birthright has always been to die.
The lumpy, cold mattress upon which he lies has long been ruined with his blood stains. It offers little in the way of consolation. His hazy eyes fix upon the water marks in the cracked plaster of the ceiling above him. Loki almost imagines he can see the frescoes of Odin's throne room in the yellowed puddle stains above him. His mind turns to memories of days long past, of love, laughter, wars, peace, of diplomatic dinners and eves before battle.
He has lost all he has ever loved. There is no succor to be found, no compassion anywhere. Nothing seems to exist but pain and a need for relief from its torture but there is no one to nurse his gulping breaths nor cradle his trembling hands.
Thor thinks him deceased and Frigga is dead because of him. Odin…well, Loki doubts Odin ever cared at all. His mind turns to Jane, the last sentient creature to whom his demise might matter. She is all that is left to him.
He desperately wants to see her, to remember the feeling of her gentle touch upon his wounds. Jane is warm, kind, merciful…He longs for her comfort but restrains the desire to go to her in search of compassion. If he tries to reach her, he knows it will take all that is left of his meager strength. He is not even sure he could survive teleportation.
Loki knows he has terrorized her. Jane deserves better than the begging of a failed tyrant, desperate for her gentleness. Nonetheless, he is terrified and longs for Jane's sympathies. Dying is hardly the peaceful, noble or glorious endeavor it is made out to be by the bards. Is there no warmth left? No kindness? No mercy? Is this truly to be his final end, alone and uncomforted in death?
Loki gasps at sudden, horrendous pain; his serrated flesh splits further apart as the magical binding fails. He clutches weakly for his sternum, desperate to alleviate the excruciation, it is an ironic encore of how he held the fresh injury after the Kursed threw him upon the volcanic soil of the Dark Elves' homeworld. The wound now appears almost exactly as it had when he'd first been run through.
Another stab of agony shoots through Loki as a tear re-opens in his lungs.
Coherent thought abandons him. In that moment, he ceases to care for nobility, propriety or warped altruism. He is dying. Nothing matters. He is not thinking any more, his mind is consumed with delirium. With the last of his energies, he finds himself opening the threads of space.
His pride abandoned, body in tatters and mind warped beyond repair, Loki's one remaining imperative is to beg for Jane's mercy...
~0~
Weeks go by without incident and Jane thinks that, perhaps, Loki has finally died of his wound in some corner of the universe where no one will ever know. The thought makes her heart ache with irrational and unexpected pain.
Although his visits to her apartment were never welcomed, there is something undeniably tragic about him. When he had collapsed into her arms, she had realized for the first time that he really was mortal, with all the same frailties and moral failings that plagued her own race.
He had done terrible things and killed hundreds of people but he was not an irrational or heartless monster. Perhaps it was the very fact that he was so human that made him so very frightening. He had saved Thor at the price of his own life, he had fought and killed to protect her on the Dark Elves' world; surely, that made him worthy of some forgiveness?
She is asleep in her bed when a painfully groaned word rouses her from her dreams.
"Jane…"
Her mind engages, recognizing the voice. She quickly sits up and switches on the lamp, heart leaping to her throat. The Mischief God is crumpled on the carpet beside her bed. "...Jane...please…" he whispers, begging as if her name is a prayer. Loki's one good arm clings to his chest, the other is dead and useless. His thin tunic is soaked with washes of blood.
She quickly throws off the coverlet and crouches at his side. As he raises his head to look at her with haunted eyes, unkempt black hair falls back from where it hangs in curtains around his face to reveal hollow cheekbones and chalky skin.
She hesitates, unsure how to help him. "What can I do?" She asks imploringly.
He looks confused, as if the answer should be obvious, hesitating as though afraid to admit some shameful secret, "...I've…nowhere else…t-to go." He holds his chest a little tighter, gripped with some silent pang. His eyes bore into hers as he fights for air. "...I don't…I don't want…to die alone...please…" Her mind marvels at the irony of the situation.
At her feet whimpers a being who sought to conquer the world, pleading with her for the most basic of human comfort. He, who has called himself a deity, is begging her for mercy, for kindness, as though she is some benevolent god.
In the end, she cannot bring herself to be cruel.
"You won't." She replies, her answer soft and quiet as she masters her instinctive fear of the fallen prince. "I'm going to help you onto the bed."
He makes a noise of gratitude, nodding faintly in acquiescence. She awkwardly pulls the arm on his uninjured side over her shoulder and holds it to her chest, throwing her other hand around his hip. With great effort, she rises, hauling most of his weight with her. If her actions hurt him, he does not show it as she drags him to sit on the edge of the bed.
She lays him back on the mattress and lifts his legs up onto the bed before moving to prop pillows and blankets behind his back and hips so he can lay on his uninjured side.
A sound like a mix between a sigh and a moan rattles in his throat as his body settles into the cushion. "Thank you…" He slurs before being seized by a profuse cough. She watches in silent horror as he gags on his own blood, red spittle staining his lips and chin. In anticipation, she grabs the waste basket and sits it next to him, moving to support him as he leans over the side of the bed and begins vomiting blood into the trash receptacle.
Once she is certain he is finished throwing up, Jane wipes the crimson stains from his lips with a tissue. "Would you like some water?" She asks. He nods weakly into the pillow. She leaves to retrieve a water bottle. Upon her return, he regards her with half-lidded eyes and draws in a sharp breath of air, as if gathering the energy to speak, "Lady Jane..." He rasps. "You are…as g-good and…as kind…as Queen Frigga herself…"
Warmth spreads through Jane's heart, moved to be compared to the valiant, departed Queen. "Thank you." She whispers, tears coming to her eyes as she holds the plastic rim to his lips. He manages to take several sips before she withdraws the bottle.
As his eyes fall closed, Jane absently moves to brush his hair away from his face, pondering the strange situation for a moment before suddenly remembering something from their first encounter.
"Loki…" She calls his name, hoping he'll cling to the waking world just a bit longer. "When you first came to me, you asked me to tell you about my time with Thor, do you still want me to do that?"
She jerks back slightly with surprise as he appears to laugh silently, the corners of his mouth turning up as he whispers a reply. "I no longer…need you to. I've…learned firsthand…how extraordinary you really are…I can...surmise...the rest-"
A moment later, he lapses into unconsciousness.
Jane simply stares at him for a moment, touched and heartbroken. Her eyes dart to his chest to be sure she can still see it rising and falling. With a sigh, she sends a quick text to her supervisor and Darcy to tell them she hasn't been feeling well and won't be in to work the next morning.
She quickly tidies up as best she can without disturbing him, dragging an armchair from the living room to his bedside. His breaths continue to come in short, pained gasps. It seems as though he is likely to slip away sometime in the night. On impulse, Jane reaches out to take hold of the icy, gray hand that hangs limply over the edge of the mattress. Even if he is not fully conscious, this way he can still at least feel that he is not alone.
For the first time since she has known him, Loki no longer frightens her.
Jane does not know for how long she sits there, she only knows that is long enough for her to fall asleep, her fingers still laced through those of a dying war criminal. When she awakens, it is still dark outside. She glances over at her patient, somehow grateful to hear the telltale panting of hard-won breaths. She watches him for an indeterminate amount of time before his eyes suddenly fly open, causing her to flinch with surprise. His gaze darts toward her and a look of profound recognition crosses his face. "M'ther…" He slurs, his eyes staring at her in wonder. "You...came...?"
Jane's heart squeezes uncomfortably to see him so disoriented.
"Of course, I came. " She replies, playing along with his confusion in a desperate attempt to comfort him.
"..'m so sorry...mother" He whispers; the magnitude of shame and guilt in his voice makes the words more profound than Jane would have thought possible. "All is forgiven." She replies, emulating Frigga's authoritative tone though her voice is thick with emotion. She thinks she sees tears glistening in his eyes as his line of sight roams over her. Jane gives his hand a reassuring squeeze from where it rests within her grasp and a responding sob bubbles up from his throat as his glazed eyes regard her with a pleading look: "...will y-...will you...h-hold m-me?"
Jane blinks back tears at the simple, earnest request, nodding her acquiescence as she lets go of his hand and rises to go crawl onto the other side of the bed. She shoves the blood-soaked blankets and pillows out from behind him and pulls him over, allowing the weight of his body to roll against her own. She hesitantly wraps her arm around him, willing some of her warmth into his emaciated frame. He sighs with contentment, eyes falling shut as his weight settles onto her, his head cradled against her bosom. His breathing eventually becomes shallow and Jane is certain he has drifted back into unconsciousness.
About an hour later, his fading breaths crescendo into a profound and final sigh. Just as the sun crosses the horizon, Jane feels the soft beat of his damaged heart come to an abrupt and terminal stop.