Thank you so much for all the favorites and reviews. I'm honored. I feel like a lot of people who read chapter 1 thought it was a one-shot (and I did write it so it could be one), but I've got ideas... so here we are. I kinda wanted to cry writing this chapter, but it will get happier soon, I promise.
The dull crack of a staff meeting skull is a unique, unmistakable sound. The strangled cry that follows-even moreso. When the prison chambers were built, the Chitauri had designed the vaulted ceilings specifically to cause any noises to echo throughout the vast space of the cell floor. Every scream, every plea for mercy, every choked sob was meant to strike fear into those trapped within the blood-soaked walls.
"If you fail... if the Tesseract is kept from us... there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where we can't find you. You think you know pain? It will make you long for something sweeter..."
Loki was hunched over in the corner of his cell, curled tightly into a ball in an attempt to keep any sort of heat that his body produced from escaping. A hot stream of blood was coursing down his cheek, and he relished the warmth. Cold was an ever familiar state to the Jotun prince; his touch was icy and his heart had become the same. But this... this was more than a winter chill. There was something about this place that seemed to slowly feed on every thought or memory of what once was, leaving his mind empty and devoid of hope.
The past few weeks were a fog. Was it weeks, now? It felt like years. Any notion of time had been lost when he was thrown into this alien prison. All the pain had blurred together; he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the memories.
Rough hands picked him up by the under his arms. He felt the nauseating strike of a steel boot to his stomach as he collided with the wall.
"Eat your bread, Asgardian scum." The sound of the steel door slamming shut caused him to wince.
Loki clung to the dreamless abyss of sleep at every opportunity. He needed every ounce of strength he could get. Deep gashes and countless bloody scratches covered his body; every part of him was raw and aching for relief. With his magic, he knew could heal them all in mere seconds... it was a powerful temptation, and he was so accustomed to ridding himself of injuries in an instant. Oh, how mortal he felt.
"Stop, Loki," he thought, commanding himself. "Your self-pity is pathetic. You must endure this until you are strong enough to escape this place."
Loki pulled his knees tighter to his chest, shivering. He knew that any amount of healing would set him back by a factor of days. This place drained him of energy, and the torture was breaking him even further, but he was determined to escape. He had to.
The Chitauri were a powerful race, but they knew naught of the power that the God of Mischief posessed. They thought him inches from death, but he could feel his magic slowly strengthening; he was given only bits of bread and small amounts of water each day, and the beatings were relentless. If he could only regain enough of his power, he could transport himself away from this nightmare.
Loki sighed into his palms. There was one problem that he'd been turning over in his mind since he had decided to escape-where would he go once he did?
Truthfully, anywhere was better than here. Asgard? No, that would just as soon lead back to this place. He had returned briefly to the kingdom with his brother, but soon after was handed over to the Chitauri, Thor's teary gaze following him until he was out of sight.
Let him weep. He was a fool, believing their disguises and their lies. They had come to the palace disguised as executioners, dragging him off to a 'painless death', they had said. The steely muzzle that had been secured onto his face remained, and he had no choice but to submit to their tricks as his adoptive family looked on.
He didn't want to admit it, but unless he wanted to risk waiting even longer in this hellhole while he recovered further to travel to an unfamiliar realm, the only option remaining was to return to Midgard-to Earth. The destruction he had wrought was fresh, he knew, but the Avengers and their precious government thought him dead. He could hide in plain sight with the knowledge that he could be halfway across the world in the time it took to snap his fingers.
Even so, where would he go? Surely he had enough dignity remaining to refuse to sleep in their streets. He would be weak, vulnerable; his wounds fresh and his power completely drained. There was one possibility... one place that gave him a fraction of a chance of finding refuge, if only temporary.
"Tell me again why you don't come visit more ofte-ah-often, oh god, you tease-"
The trickster was busy drawing circles with his tongue along Tony's collarbone, simultaneously running fingertips along the hem of his oil-stained jeans, tracing patterns on the inside of the man's thigh. Loki felt Tony's warm hand cupping the back of his head, making small, massaging circles of his own.
Tony made a small noise of disapproval when Loki's mouth left his shoulder. "You really are evil. Jesus."
It was the third time that he had appeared in the billionaire's workshop-away from the tesseract, away from everything; an escape. A sense of familiarity was beginning to creep into Tony's touch, and it caused Loki to pause, breath caught in his throat. He averted his gaze. "Gentle is not a kind of touch I deal with often." Taking a step back, he scanned the room. "Perhaps it is best I leave you to your...work. This is-you are mortal, you-"
He was cut off by a hard kiss, a small bite on his bottom lip. Loki didn't pull away. "You talk too much." Tony leaned into the trickster's ear. "No more gentle. I can do that."
Loki had shut his eyes tightly at the thought of it, trying to forget; hot tears pooled in his eyes, one of them sliding down his cheek, burning the gashes as it passed. He knew it was foolish to think that Tony Stark, the playboy and the hero, thought anything more of him than a drunken conquest, but it beat the alternatives. He was badly injured and would stand no chance amidst strange mortals and their petty ways. Stark Tower was his only option.
He cursed himself for being so weak, so pathetic, but the memory was the closest thing he had felt to warmth in some time, and he couldn't help but lose himself in it, if only for a moment. He had little control over his emotions; every ounce of his willpower was fighting the urge to heal his physical state, which left little to keep up a hard exterior. He was alone, after all; he couldn't find the energy keep the tears at bay. One by one, they silently fell, sharp pain spreading throughout his face; he slowly slid sideways, his bruised temple finally meeting the concrete. It almost felt soft in contrast to the ache of broken bone and the sting of uncovered lacerations.
Please, let this pass.