A/N: AH. So, you guys have already witnessed firsthand how very inconsistent I am when it comes to updates. :/ I meant to publish this days ago, but it just wasn't ready. Or done. Ended up being a lot longer than I expected.

Unfortunately, I still hate it. The Loki bits are tolerable; the Thor bits are atrocious. But I promise you that this fic will start sounding - er- more like an actual story come next chapter. I really wanted to emphasize the difference in Loki's and Thor's lives here - thus the dual P.O.V. For the rest of the story, I'll be trading off between chapters. One chapter will be from Loki's P.O.V., the next from Thor's, etc.


In other news: OMG! I was not expecting the turn around that this got - and when all I put up was a very demented, measly paragraph! Honestly, I'm amazed and honored that so many of you took an interest in this idea!

midnight6277: Omg! First comment! Woot! Really appreciate your enthusiasm - wow, what an honor! I hope you enjoy the emerging plot line. This story is supposed to have one (I have a plot sheet and everything, lolz), but this chapter mostly sets up things to come.

Guest #1: I'm so glad! Thanks!

Singer Salvage: Wow, thanks! I'm glad you find it interesting - I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Guest #2: Thanks so much! Ah, and thanks for commenting on the newspaper format. I found it interesting to write, even if I'm not entirely satisfied with how it turned out - but then, I'm rarely satisfied.

ABECrudele: And I was aiming for chilling! I'm glad it came across. I hope you (somewhat) enjoy the story. I swear it will make more sense after this chapter...

Wings of Darkness: It's not a sin, it's a blessing! Thanks so much for reading!

Guest #3: I was intending on a shock factor, so I'm glad you felt it, even if I feel a bit guilty about it too (why don't I ever have any fluffy, cuddly plot lines?) - but I'm honored you're interested!

Guest #4: Thanks, thanks, thanks!


"Cast down for your sins;

Come here for redemption;

We've got grace for cheap,

We've got grace for cheap."

"Grace for Sale," The Devil's Carnival

Chapter One

Thunder

Loki wakes to the storm and its low baying of thunder sounds like wolves to him.

His room is small and its walls thin. Tattered curtains are stretched over the lone window, but still he imagines the clouds that must be lurching across the sky – great clouds, he imagines, gray and wild and thoughtless – massive things that chase each other across an endless void – yowling, howling, growling as they do so – the clouds are thunder, and thunder is wolves. So he imagines wolves, slavering, stupid creatures, all dull eyes and dripping jaws, and he imagines them tramping about in pointless circles, bloody maws and snuffling noses and jagged claws, and he knows they are here to make today just a little bit harder, just a little bit uglier, just a little bit fouler.

Loki smiles tartly. He went to bed reading mythologies, so he wakes up dreaming of wolves. In reality, he knows thunder has nothing to do with canines. Thunder is the sound of lightning. And lightning is a flash and a vibration. That is all.

Besides, he will not let thunder (in either wolfish metaphor or scientific fact) ruin this day.

Today his body and his mind and the remnants of his soul (if there is a soul; he doubts it) will reach their equilibrium.

Loki stands up and feels blood tingling in his fingertips. His bedroom is bare, a pale, boxy space with no color or personality or depth, a place full of nothingness. Like him. Its floor creaks, cold, and its hollow walls are peeling; he can hear the rats scurrying behind the plaster, squirming away from the roars and the bangs of thunder. When the rain begins to fall (and it falls soon, almost as soon as Loki straightens up), it drives against the roof in thick, hard pellets, a wet stain spreading across the ceiling like a canopy, raindrops clinging to the surface before splattering against his shoulder. He ignores the dampness, the chill feeling.

He folds the blankets (thin and musty, sallow) with a neat precision. His movements are nimble, his mind as sharp and cutting as glass. He feels calm. There is no rush of adrenaline, no rapid influx of emotion, no terrible smothering of joy and tragedy – there is only the steady beating of his heart (calm, calm, calm) and a quiet certainty settling in his core, as still and peaceful as fallen snow. His fingers do not jerk or tremble as he makes his bed for the last time. His eyes do not sweep over the frayed patches on the sheets or the limp pillow with anything resembling warmth or nostalgia. His motions are mechanical, his thoughts diamond-hard.

Make the bed. Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Comb your hair.

He hears the commands from faraway, and it's like he's detached from himself, it's like he's watching himself and he's a stranger.

Pack your clothes. Keep the curtains drawn. Disconnect the phone. Lock the door.

Thunder (or is that the sound of wolves, baying?) booms and the little apartment quivers.

But no, he will not let the thunder ruin this day.

Today is the day Loki Laufeyson will die.


Thor wakes to the storm and its hearty rumble of thunder sounds like lions to him.

He does not mind. Lions are regal beasts, like him.

His room is plush and its walls elaborate. He would not have heard the gale lashing against crystallized glass panes, but last night he wedged his window open – and now the breeze cascades into his chambers, tangling velvet draperies. The curtains are thick and fine and wine-colored: they whisper of wealth, spreading their expensive folds elegantly in the wind, fluttering with a haunted life; they might have looked like crimson phantoms to a more imaginative mind. But to Thor they are simply cloth; he shoves them aside idly, his electric-blue eyes searching the sky with avid interest.

Outside the world is cool and gray as quartz, crackling with energy. He feels the spirit of the storm, wild and free and uncontrolled, brewing in his blood, singing in his lungs, leaping with every bound of his heart. When lightning flashes, he can almost taste it, and it's a raw flavor in his mouth, an invigorating shock in his throat. It's like swallowing fire and it burns his blood with inexplicable power. And he knows he's alive. Thunder roars and he cannot tell whether the sound comes from the clouds or his core: it's a natural part of him, the very crux of his soul, older than his heartbeat, more vital than his breath – this unearthly song that rumbles across tumultuous heavens – the song of an untamed spirit – fierce and unruly and proud – and the thunder is him, it is him, it is him.

And he knows he's alive.

Thor smiles as another clap of thunder shakes the streets below.

It is a good omen.

He still remembers last week's victory (a victory he single-handedly won) as sharp and vivid as a snapshot. The smell of fresh grass fills his nose and the slippery feel of mud beneath his feet returns to him; he remembers huge bodies hulking towards him and the hot sweat clinging to his brow, the pounding heat of his helmet; he recalls the rough surface of the ball pressed against his palm; and he will never forget the sight of that ball soaring way over the goalposts, swallowed in the lavender mists of twilight – the eruption of screams (thunderous) from the audience – and then teammates piling on him, the laughter escaping from his throat – the sheer delicious reality of we've won, we've won – I've won.

The Thunderers would move onto the Super Bowl because of his triumph.

And I will win us that as well, now that we are back in New York, Thor thinks somehow roguishly, a grin crooking his lips.

After months of games, after plodding through half the country, the famous football team had returned to their mother-state for the Super Bowl. And Thor had gotten a couple of weeks to sleep in his own bed, in his own house.

Thunder rumbles and it feels like home.

Thor watches the man in the mirror with satisfaction.

Life is flawless.


When Loki walks outside, no one sees him.

The mist and the rain and the thunder swallow him entirely, and no one notices the tall, dark, poker-thin figure swathed in a tatty overcoat, striding down the streets. Loki does not mind. He enjoys invisibility, especially today. Invisibility means peace and solitude and a silent liberation; attention translates into a stranger in a white coat and clipboard shoving pills down your throat because, of course, she (or he) knows your brain and your body better than you do. Best to listen. Best to be still. Best to sit quietly in a room with no color and no light and nod obediently while you pretend to not want to die. (Best, best, best – best to tell lies, sweet as silver).

Or then the ones that ogle you; the simpering eyes and the crooning smiles; the guilty glances and morbid curiosity cloaked in pity –

"Oh…are you…oh…" ("It's the boy who had his mouth sewn shut!")

"Ah…Laufeyson, I see –" ("It's the Warehouse Kid!")

"I'm so, so sorry…" ("How did you survive? What happened? What happened? What happened?")

No, no. Invisibility is better.

Anyway, they are always watching – the Faceless and the Woman and the Dead Children.

Eleanor watches him, blood dripping down her chin.

He only sees her in his periphery vision, and when he blinks, she vanishes. Not real, the mantra would usually begin, but today, it does not matter. Today she might as well be real. Today the boundaries between sane and insanity will snap like a gossamer thread and he'll return to the beginning and it will finally be the end. Over, over, over.

Loki pulls his coat tighter to him as the rain descends harder.

It's strange, he realizes distantly, how today, on the advent of his conclusion, that his body should feel so alive. He feels every droplet of water seeping through the fabric of his clothes, kissing at his chilly skin. He feels the wind rake its ragged fingernails against his cheek. And he feels his heart, that pitiable muscle that beats meaninglessly, pointlessly, mechanically in his chest, circulating blood, circulating breath, circulating that bizarre half-life that clings to him like a phantom. Oh, how he detests it. The heart. The blood. The breath.

The (half) life.

But Loki detests a lot of things – humanity being one of them.

Thunder roars again as he steps down into the subway station, its voice overbearing.

He decides he does not like thunder much either.


When Thor walks outside, everyone sees him.

Not at first, of course, because privacy and law suits protect the sprawling home upstate from media and paparazzi – but the moment his Mercedes melts into the teeming traffic of Manhattan, it happens. People on the sidewalks point and wave and smile; drivers glance a little too long when they glimpse his profile in their rearview mirror; cars stop and windows roll down and some voices add their cries to the din of city life, shouting "Odinson!" or "Thunderers!" or "Oh my God, it that really him –?" And Thor cannot suppress the grin itching to spread across his lips because the energy is golden and palpable and entirely contagious.

He comes here today to celebrate.

After months away, training and winning games, he will finally be visiting his parents. He conjures them now in his mind: Frigga, elegant in her later years, her hair delicately curled; her hands still full of motherly caresses; and Odin, somehow both rugged and refined, his good eye stern, but his smile prideful atop his snowy white beard. He knows them so well. He can almost imagine their conversation – Mother will congratulate him, then move on to fret about Father's health, arguing that running a corporation is simply too much for a man his age (all while staring pointedly at Thor) – to which Odin will respond, with a gruff shake of the head, that he's not so addled that he cannot handle a few bumps in the corporate world.

Thor knows his father, old and wise and vigorous, will refuse to retire – even if it comes to overseeing Asgard Enterprise from a computer screen in his bedroom. Secretly, Thor feels grateful: he pretends not to notice his mother's subtle remarks, but he's in the thick of his athletic career and he has no desire to take on the wearisome mantle of the family business. Sometimes he wishes he had a younger sibling to do the job for him, but his slight mother had difficulty with her pregnancy; another birth would have been hazardous for her.

Still, he looks forward to seeing them. They both resonate with pride at his success – and he understands that they live entirely for him. This reunion will be joyous because he has done well. And will continue to do well.

Thor cannot imagine a time when he will not do well.

And Sif will be there too, of course. Always Sif.

The restaurant rears regal and resplendent before him. Thor doesn't notice its grandeur, the high mullioned windows glittering with a dozen candles, the velvety awning stretching over the polished oak doors like a royal canopy – instead he swerves rashly into the parking lot, laughing at the cacophony of honks and screeches that follows the motion. He hands a stunned lot attendant his key and strolls to the entrance with an easy, confident gait.

Thor does not register the finery (he's seen too much of it to care), but he certainly notices the flush on the doorman's face.

The man nearly blends in with his cultured surroundings. He's a small, mousy figure, primly dressed, his tailored suit the same shade of black as the door behind him; his fingers, gloved in fine white fabric, hesitate as they squeeze the burnished doorknob. His glasses are small and round and over-shined.

"Er, Mr. Odinson – " And it's the nervous little catch in his throat, the awkward stoop of his shoulders, that makes Thor predict exactly what will come next, "I know you're off right now, but –"

"Who should I make it out to?"

The doorman gawks and Thor booms out his laughter. The thunder overhead mimics the sound, rich and deep and powerful.

"That is what you want, isn't it? Or have I misunderstood you?"

The man nearly trips in his eagerness; he pulls out a slip of paper with fumbling fingers and stammers his thanks again and again as Thor leans against the doorframe and scrawls a sloppy signature.

"It's just my son; he loves to watch you play – and I knew if I saw you – and especially after your last game (amazing throw, by the way) –"

"Of course, of course!" Thor chortles, and this whole thing feels very natural and comfortable for him, "Tell your boy he's rooting for the right team."

"Yes – oh, I know, I know," the doorman says breathlessly, pulling the door open in one fluid motion, "Good luck at the Super Bowl, Mr. Odinson, sir."

But Thor is entirely serious when he answers,

"I don't need any luck."


The woman behind the counter does not trust Loki.

She has good reason. Loki smiles, and it's thin-lipped, bloodless.

The receptionist's mouth does not budge from its shapeless line. She surveys him over her spectacles, her manicured nails tapping suspiciously against the keys of her computer. Her gaze is brittle and haughty as she inspects him, a sweeping skepticism that skims over the patches on his coat before resting disapprovingly on his frayed sleeves and battered collar. She studies the gauntness of his cheek and the sunken aspect of his eyes, and he knows that she knows he doesn't belong here – his hair might be swept back cleanly, but everything else about him embodies a bitter neglect and the grimness of poverty.

This hotel is made for luxurious souls. Loki has walked unbidden into a landscape unrecognizable; into a palace of gold-papered walls and glossy marble floors. Everything here glitters, the glass countertop and the silver vases and the chandelier festooned with a thousand diamonds – the glitter hangs bright and sharp in the air and tastes like someone else's dream, like some faraway, half-remembered fairytale no one bothered to tell him. He feels distant from himself. The dangling gems from the chandelier are cruel and faceted; they cast refracted, multicolored light everywhere, and thorny rainbows stab at his vision, blinding him. He doesn't belong here. Go away, go away, go away, the crystals of this place tell him. You are not valuable. You are not beautiful. You are nothing. You are the tattered remains of someone unwanted.

Loki ignores them. He has plotted this day meticulously – for months, for a year.

He wants to end grandly.

No. He needs to end grandly.

"Um…yes," the receptionist mumbles, still clacking uselessly (and rather irritatingly) on her keyboard. "Laufeyson, you said your name was? Are you sure you can afford a room here?"

She wears too much makeup, Loki notes. Her blush looks like grotesque, clotted roses on her upper cheekbones.

"Oh, I'll be fine," he responds, and the words come out silver, his smile suddenly smooth and slippery as silk, "I know I don't look like much, but I'm working as a pianist a few blocks down at a restaurant. My boss convinced me to stay here…he's going to reimburse me for all my expenses."

Loki is an excellent liar. His smile is a virus and the receptionist catches it quickly. She accepts his credit card without further argument and nods him down a long corridor lined with Persian carpets.

He feels unmistakably calm.

His room is fragile, like the inside of a gilded egg shell. Everything is gold, gold, gold – the veils clustered by the windows are a waterfall of glorious yellow, the bed-sheets have all the sleekness of precious metals. The bathroom is a cool, spacious alcove, draped in shadows, but its tub and facet and showerhead gleam a polished bronze. Loki steps into the space quietly and when he turns on the tap the water runs soft and white over his fingertips, whispering against his skin.

He's still calm. In the corner of the mirror, he sees the blurry image of Eleanor, watching him, haunted. But it does not matter, it does not matter. Everything will come full circle today. And he's still very calm.

Loki does not turn on the lights. His heart beats placidly; either unaware or uncaring that it soon will die. He leaves the water murmuring in the sink; he turns towards the shower and pulls back the curtains (also gold) before twisting on the knobs here as well – liquid shoots from the showerhead, hissing violently as it thuds against the bottom of the tub, almost drowning out the faint babble of the sink. And outside the thunder roars against what must now be a nighttime sky – roars and thrashes like some unseen, wounded beast, but Loki feels faraway from it now, so faraway, faraway, faraway. And very calm, so calm, so calm he's cold. Calmness is ice and ice is sleep.

Now not only Eleanor watches. They all watch him, grungy clothes and torn faces. The Dead Children.

But life goes round and round and round and comes full circle. He'd come back; he'd always come back.

He told them so.

Loki looks in the mirror, knowing (calmly, calmly) that this will be the last time he sees himself, but the darkness warps his reflection, makes him something else. His irises fade to blackness in the gloom; his eyes resemble empty sockets; and the white of his skin shines like a skull here – his hair drips, raven-colored, into the surrounding shadows – and he looks like a demon, or a monster, something tormented and twisted and wraithlike. When he was a little boy, if they would let him, he would sit in the dark for hours and stare at his reflection, watching the inky blackness sift over his face, bruise his features, make him someone else. Someone dead or someone dying.

Loki smiles and cannot remember if the semicircle his mouth forms now is the silver one he reserves for strangers or genuine happiness. He has forgotten.

And he's so calm. So calm that he's almost frozen.

His satchel lies at his feet, a bedraggled thing. He brought it with him. He could take pills, he knows, it would be painless, like dissolving, but that tastes of cowardice to him – and he needs to go the way they did. Bloodily.

Is it normal to be so calm?

His fingers do not shake. Everything here is gold. He slides the little blade from his satchel, and his mind, which is very still and silent and cold, remarks that its edge winks silver in the dark, silver like his smile, like his lies. And his heart beats, one, two, three, rhythmic as a lullaby. He will die grandly here, surrounded by blood and water and grandeur. His breathing is even. He places the knife tip against his skin (it bites like frost) and sees roses blooming from his wrists. And Eleanor looks accusatory – why? She does not think he's moving fast enough, most likely, but he knows their deaths were slow and gradual, and he needs to mimic their last breaths of life, the walls of a bathroom now the walls of a warehouse. And everything comes full circle and his life spins like a paradox, like a snake eating its tail. He feels nothing and he's so calm, so calm, calm like ice, and everything is gold – so why is his tongue silver? He's silver, but he's also corroded. He watches his smile, silver and rust, collapse in on itself. He's not hallucinating. Roses everywhere and darkness falling and water running and faraway, the thunder and wolves and a distant keening. But everything is gold here, even the Dead Children, craning over him, dressed in murder. Everything is gold….gold…gold…

…and calm as ice.


The woman behind the podium smirks at Thor.

He grins back – perhaps a little more cheekily than usual – because Sif stands beside him, tall and regal in her silk shirt and dress pants, and he can see her suppressing a scowl.

Thor knows the smirking woman well. Her mother owns the restaurant, and as she is a close friend of Frigga's, the Odinsons are frequent customers here. He still remembers the day his parents introduced them: Thor had been ten at the time, very bored and very irritated at being coerced into a suit and ushered around stuffy, ornament-cluttered rooms. Frigga had yanked him over to a little girl with curly red hair and wide tulle skirt, proclaimed that her name was Roxanne, and that the two of them were going to be "very nice friends!" The moment Frigga was out of earshot, Thor had stuck his tongue out at her, and Roxanne had kicked him in the shin. They had spent the rest of the evening pinching each other under the table; until it was time to leave – Roxanne had snatched up his wrist and dragged him around a corner and kissed him.

He thinks the memory sums up their relationship pretty well.

They have dated since, certainly, several times in adolescence and adulthood – but their relationship is always a brief flare, sizzling out after a month or two.

Sif has never liked Roxanne. "Shallow," she calls her, "Shallow and spoiled and frivolous – sort of like you, Thor," but Thor only laughs at this and Sif has no choice but to smile.

Roxanne now dips her glittery gaze down to skim a list of reservations.

"Ah, yes. We have a table in the back for the rising athlete and his lucky family," she croons, flicking back a curl flirtatiously and leaning forward on the podium. Her blouse, laced with genuine, milky-white pearls, swoops in a very low neckline.

Thor chuckles deep in his chest. "I think you have me confused with another guest, Roxanne. I'm definitely more than a rising athlete," the grin that slides over his mouth is full and indulgent, "But then – I suppose it must be difficult for you to keep up with the times, eh, Roxy? Your mother still has you waiting on tables like a middleclass waitress."

Roxanne's mouth is a smudge of vivid red lipstick. She taps the laminated list of reservations in a precise, almost dangerous manner.

"Ouu, clever, you big lug," she murmurs, her long, snaky earrings tinkling as she moves still closer to Thor, "Why don't you stop by after hours and I'll show you how busy I am –"

"– Hello, Roxanne," Sif's voice cuts cleanly over the redhead's words, steeped in steel.

Thor throws back his lion's mane in a fit of laughter. Sif stands poised and perfectly erect, her black hair pin-straight and fluid as it runs down her angular cheeks.

He has known her even longer than Roxanne. She has always been beautiful, but sharp, cutthroat, like a crystalline blade, shimmering in shadows. When they were little, Sif spurned pointy shoes, despised princesses, cut off the hair of all her baby dolls and once muddied her best dress while wrestling Thor in her mother's garden during a rainstorm. Oh, how they were scolded for that one: Sif's parents had barricaded her in her room for weeks and Frigga had twisted Thor's ear until he formally apologized to Sif's mother for crushing her tulips.

Like Roxanne, Thor met her through their parents: Sif's father still works for Odin at Asgard Enterprises.

Unlike Roxanne, Thor has never dated Sif.

Thor thinks it a strange predicament. Certainly, as a child, he saw her as a separate species than giggly, frilly girls like Roxy; she was his fearless playmate, nervy and ruthless and fun, the same as Fandral or Volstagg or Hogun. However, as they grew older, Thor realized that Sif's strength was a multifaceted attribute: She was probably the deadliest person he knew (How many forms of martial arts does she know? Can he even count them all?), but also fiercely loyal and extremely protective. He will never forget the time she punched a boy in the eye for muttering rude things about Thor's mother. And as abrasive as she could be, Sif could also be warm and compassionate, attentive and supportive. Thor knows if he ever needed to talk about serious matters (though when that might happen, he cannot fathom), Sif would listen to him; that she would not snort or roll her eyes or judge.

So why are they not together?

Thor cannot say. He's not entirely sure. He's only aware that they skirt around each other awkwardly, as if dancing some unwieldy, uncomfortable dance, evading each other's eyes, their fingers never brushing. On several occasions, friends and teammates and even admirers interrogated him about Sif, but his answer always remained the same: "We are friends; good friends; the best of friends."

And that is all.

There was once – just once – a strange, strained moment when Sif asked Thor out on a date, but she retracted the request almost immediately the next day, leaving nothing but a question lingering insubstantial between them. Are we not meant to be more than friends?

Still, Thor has always found Sif's irritableness with Roxy to be humorous. He has never met two women so entirely different.

"Oh, Sif!" Roxanne's voice rises high and false and gaudy now, severing Thor's thoughts, "I didn't even recognize you without your dirt and your man's uniform!"

This makes Thor frown slightly. Sif's employment is an honorable one – she is the renowned head of the New York police force; crime has significantly diminished since her leadership. He does not see why Roxanne should antagonize Sif about such work.

"Roxy –" he starts, but Sif waves his words away with a careless hand.

"Thank you, Roxanne," she smiles blithely, though her dark eyes are like concrete, "And you look like…a princess, as always."

It's something about the delicate pressure on princess, the little twitch of Sif's lips, that reminds Thor of the time she threw her bedraggled princess doll into the fireplace just to watch it burn.

"Oh, Thor! Sif! You two are early! We apologize for being so late – your father's a little under the weather –"

Frigga's cries chase away the tension between the two women. Thor turns to see his mother hurrying down the ornate lobby, towing what appears to be a disgruntled Odin in her wake. Her evening gown rustles imperiously as she walks, her gait swift yet elegant; Odin steps importantly besides her, looking both rugged and firm. He notices the two are doused with moisture – the rain seems to be falling along with the oncoming night.

Thor shoots the sort of roguish grin he knows will irk his mother.

"Frigga!" He booms, extending his arms wide, "We have been here for hours! What could possibly have taken you so long?"

The older woman scowls as she reaches them, tapping her fingers in a playful smack over Thor's prominent jaw.

"Don't you dare call your mother that," she chastises, but her eyes glimmer warmly, and in the next minute she's running her fingers lovingly over his bristled cheeks, touching the blonde hair, "Oh, look at you," she breathes, squeezing her son's face in a burst of affection, "We're so proud, Thor. Truly. So proud."

"Mother," Thor pretends to groan, "For God's sake, I'm a grown man," but he still cups her shoulders genially and places a kiss on her glowing cheek.

When he turns to his father, Odin appears just as rugged and vital as ever. He will never understand Frigga's incessant worries about his health.

"Father," he says, clasping the man's hand gruffly, feeling strength and calluses on that palm, "It is good to see you."

A smile peeps out from Odin's white beard. "My son," he replies, clenching Thor's broad shoulder in a vigorous grip, "Your mother is right. We are very proud."

And he knows they are. They always will be. Always, always.

Dinner passes in a happy blur of predictable conversation and steadily decreasing alcohol.

Some small, vaguely responsible part of him, tucked away in the furthest corner of his mind, mutters that he probably shouldn't drink so much at a family reunion, but Thor feels so content at this moment, so very pleased with the shape and the color and the fortunes of his life, and the way Sif's eyes float to the ceiling whenever he orders another glass is just too amusing to ignore. With each mouthful of rum or vodka or foreign beer, the night unravels further into velvety tendrils of laughter and smiles and thunder and his mother's distant scolding. Everything curls fuzzily at the corners, conversation seesawing sloppily from football to Asgard Enterprises to Roxanne personally coming to offer him another drink – and Sif's diamond earrings winking in the soft candlelight – and his father's eye patch (he lost one eye long ago, before Thor was born; a strange and heroic tale, of course!) a mysterious shade of black – and Frigga rebuking him in that endearingly fretful way of hers ("Thor, this isn't how a gentleman acts!") – and then Sif saying, her voice a thousand echoes, "I hope you aren't planning on driving home tonight –" and then Thor smashing a finely-sculpted mug on the table, declaring "Another!" at the top of his lungs, and everyone decides to call for the check.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Thor slurs cheerily, brushing at droplets of expensive beer and glass shards, "S – s – sooooo sorry –"

Then Sif's cool, white hand on his wrist, her voice saying, "Really, Thor, you're the most immature person I know –"

– and then his parents, Roxanne, Sif offering to drive him home –

"No, no," Thor stammers, chuckles, happy, drunk, "Please, please! I'm a grown man! I'll get – a hotel – room…"

But everything's spinning now and Thor's still laughing and Sif's face looks like a moon shrouded in a black cloud, peering worriedly over him, and then, "I'll see he gets to the hotel, Mrs. Odinson…" and Thor finds he's laughing, laughing, laughing –

He's not entirely sure what happens after this. He does not remember walking to the hotel, but he recalls a fascinating blur of gold and crystal that must have been spinning doors, and he thinks he remembers Sif and a receptionist with her face caked in clownish makeup and someone asking him for his autograph ("Certainly, certainly!") and then fine Persian hallways that shift from side to side like a stitched sea as the bellhop leads him to his room (When did he say goodbye to Sif?) and then the bellhop's gone and he's fumbling with his key.

And then something happens.

Thor is drunk. When he first pulls the door open, it swings back on oiled hinges, and he notices nothing.

But then the sound comes – a song – insistent under the thunder – trickle, trickle, trickle, the sound of running water. And Thor is drunk, and he's confused, especially when he feels dampness under his feet and sees the bathroom door hanging ajar. And the water looks strange, pinkish, and swirls of red like floating ribbon…and…and…why's the water running? …And why's the sink and the shower on? …And why – why – what – whatwhat is going on?

Thor is drunk and his mind is clumsy. He does not immediately recognize the scenario. Indeed, even if he were sober, he would not recognize it. He has never encountered such a thing before.

But when he stumbles to the bathroom door, he sees someone beautiful, washed in water and blood.

Outside, the thunder either bays or roars – wolves and lions, lions and wolves.


ELEANOR IS NOT AN OLD GIRLFRIEND. ROXANNE IS A SECONDARY CHARACTER. THE ONLY REAL PAIRING IN THIS STORY IS THORKI. THERE IS NO REASON TO FEAR THE MINOR OC INCLUSIONS.

Sorry - felt I should just get that out there! ^^;

In other news, I apologize for any grammatical errors. I've been a nervous wreck for the past - well, months - and I finished this at six A.M. where I am. I try to reduce errors, but if they are there, that's why.

THANKS FOR READING!