For the first and last time, a disclaimer: I disclaim. I use the intellectual property of Marvel/Disney/etc in accordance with "fair use" exceptions to copyright law, and all that jazz. Please don't sue me, cause I'm broke.
The Runic Edda
Chapter 2: Ingwaz
Midgard Date: 06.21.2019
Location: Puente Antiguo, New Mexico
Loki has long learned his lessons in discretion.
His first day back on Midgard, he lies low and observes. There is no shortage of breathless speculation about the fates of the Avengers—and he tries not to taste bitterness like bile when he thinks of them, truly he does. Hard facts are in shorter supply. As someone who leans heavily on grey areas to accomplish his deceptions, he knows quite well the value of more solid sorts of truth, and seeks them out.
He will not believe that Thor has gone ahead of him to the afterlife until his proof is incontrovertible. He cannot.
The agents of whatever limping bureaucratic nightmare used to be SHIELD seem a fine place to start, but even they still scramble, both to discover and to contain, and after a while he grows bored of watching them. They've no more evidence than the amateur gossip-mongers who ply their trades on television. Such a strange institution—journalism, he knows it is here called. Perhaps in time these journalists would fetch the right information, the proper evidence, but this matter is too important, and Loki's patience is stretched too thin to accommodate.
He must know the fate of his brother. The fate of Asgard.
From here, there are two obvious options: the Man of Iron's tower, or the residence of Thor's Midgardian paramour. Either seems likely to yield him the information he seeks. One would be infinitely simpler to check. The only possible difficulty might be actually locating the woman, but in that respect, he knows at least where to start.
He has only ever seen this settlement through the Destroyer's eyes, and it is no more impressive to him now. There is almost nothing to speak for it: it is but a central block with a few clustered buildings. A fueling station for automobiles, a trading post for foodstuffs, another for small animals, what seems to be an empty building on a large concrete lot—perhaps formerly for the purveyance of the automobiles themselves—a pub, and some sort of single-level municipal building he does not care to identify the purpose of. The rest of the town, such as it is, lies scattered about; no doubt mostly residences and places to feast.
Loki, of course, has outfitted himself appropriately—or mostly appropriately, at least. In retrospect, the unbroken black of his bespoke suit cuts a hard line against the soft browns and washed-out red-grey of the town, as though everything is blanketed in dust and choked by oxidation.
It is no sooner than he lands that he feels… something. It is not quite his brother, but something similar to the way Thor's magic felt against his senses. Limited though its applications are, the traces of life and lightning in his brother's very hugr leave a distinct and powerful impression—Loki can almost taste the ozone on the back of his tongue.
It is pointing him westward, away from the main body of the hamlet.
He follows.
Midgard Date: 06.22.2019
Location: Puente Antiguo, New Mexico
Darcy's spoon hangs limply between her lips, all but forgotten. On the tiny television screen she's pulled down from the trailer ceiling, MSNBC's news ticker proclaims, in all capital letters, the defeat of Thanos, and the pyrrhic success of the Avengers. The footage is difficult to watch, which is why she's waited for Jane to head out on a grocery run before daring to turn it on.
There isn't a lot, and most of it is hazy, the angles switching back and forth as cameras are smashed or reporters take cover. Like so many other battles, it destroys everything around it, ranging over a dense metropolis this time, because things like this always gravitate to cities for some reason. They can't contain it to a single field in Wakanda anymore, though frankly Darcy thinks Wakanda has been though a lot recently, so maybe that's only fair.
Watching the Hulk smash through entire buildings only to be flung away like he's a giant green ragdoll is… disconcerting. Surreal. The property damage, the damage to the Avengers, is something she sees but cannot quite grasp, the kind of carnage that can only be fathomed as numbers and intellectual acknowledgement because to really feel it would break something in her she has to protect. It still aches.
The Hulk footage is the clearest anyone has, but in the weeks since the fight, more information has filtered in, the world's collective journalistic drive and paranoia ensuring it. Conspiracy theories and wild speculation are everywhere, but eventually the facts emerge:
1. Thor is dead.
2. Tony Stark, War Machine, that Spiderman guy, and King T'Challa are definitely alive.
3. The rest of them seem to be missing.
Darcy knows just from hearing the tone of the newscasters' voices that it's the kind of missing where they probably won't ever be found. She swallows, reminding herself of the spoon, and grabs hold of it by the handle, dipping it back into her soggy cereal and making a face. Some of them probably wouldn't want people to know even if they are alive; the whole Accords thing is still such a hot mess she figures the the more secretive types and the former "we need independent power to act" team might not want to tell people if they're still around.
But even with all those factors accounted for… there's just no way all the missing miraculously made it, and she knows that.
It's not like she knew any of them personally, except Thor, but… shit. Darcy had always firmly been Team Spandex in the fight between them and the terrifying knowledge of her own mortality. Knowing that people like that were out there—even if they were mostly just humans with some upgrades and probably a truckload of issues—made her feel safer. At least from the world-swallowing aliens and mad titans and shit.
Now, though, she has to wonder. What if there's something else out there? The glove or whatever Thanos had been using is apparently wrecked—Thor's handiwork. But a hostile force wouldn't need something like that to obliterate humanity; it's overkill, honestly. What if something else comes for Earth, and it's still so… defenseless?
Shaking herself, she stands and heads to the sink, dumping the rest of her cereal and washing out the bowl and spoon. And Thor—she'd been so stupidly optimistic. But Jane's mark is even more faded than hers. He isn't here anymore, and Jane's only just barely starting to function again. Setting her dishes on the drying rack, Darcy flips the TV off, letting the silence settle for several long moments.
Her arm itches. She's not sure if that's psychosomatic or not, because it's been itching for a couple of days now, and she almost can't bear it anymore. She also can't bear to look at it, so for all she knows she has a terrible rash under her sleeve or something, but Darcy knows she sure as shit isn't going to look right now. She'd given herself the one night to lose her cool, but then the morning afterwards Jane's mark disappeared, and you can't really miss what you've never had anyway, right?
Nothing is right. Maybe nothing will ever be right again, even when the rest of the world manages to sort itself out.
The dishes are washed, the tiny trailer bathroom is clean—hell, she even made her bed. Apparently the pressing need for distraction turns Darcy into a domestic goddess.
Poor choice of words.
Fortunately, the fact that she's out of things to clean and organize isn't too much of a hindrance, because Jane comes tromping up the steps then, a reusable grocery bag in each hand, and that's her cue.
There's only another couple of bags in the truck bed, and Darcy hauls them out easily. Score one for lugging around all of Jane's heavy shit. She's trekking back up to the trailer when she feels an uncomfortable prickle on the back of her neck. Years ago, when she was still a dumb college student without a clue, she'd have thought nothing of it. But after everything—well, even if her instincts are just normal human ones, she's learned to mind them.
She pauses, turning halfway back to scan the lot behind her. There aren't too many people in the trailer park; Puente Antiguo is a one-stoplight kind of town, and most people live on the north side instead of out this way. None of the few around are visible. Most of them don't come out of their places except to go to work or out for errands, as far as Darcy knows. And it's not Mrs. Ramirez out poking at the single flower-box she calls a garden, either. Darcy's eyes narrow, looking for anything out of place.
Nothing.
Pursing her lips, she picks her feet up just a bit faster and resolves to sleep in the trailer tonight instead of the Pinz. Just in case.
Jane seems to have disappeared into the bathroom, so Darcy starts stowing the food, which is kind of like playing Tetris, only not nearly as entertaining. Maybe she should pull out Jane's Atari and volunteer to get her ass kicked tonight. It could be a good distraction for the both of them. And maybe she could make brownies or something. There's probably not any caramel in these bags, but—
Darcy's fingers alight on an opened box; she nearly cuts her finger on one of the tabs. It wouldn't be the first time Jane's just taken whatever she needed and forgotten about the rest, but what could she possibly have grabbed and hauled off to the bathroom with her? They've got plenty of pads and tampons—oh.
Oh.
Darcy stares at the words on the side of the box she's extracted from the bag, rolling her lips between her teeth and biting down. Oh, Janey…
"Darcy?" Jane's muffled voice reaches her from the bathroom. The water shuts off. "Can you—can you come here, please?"
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Darcy tries to play it cool, shoving the box back in the bag and crossing the trailer to the bathroom door. She knocks with one knuckle. "What's up, Janey? We outta t.p. or something?"
The door opens; Jane's fully dressed, but she's clutching a white plastic stick in one hand like she's not sure what to do with it but can't let it go. She makes eye contact, and Darcy swallows. "Can you—can you tell me what this says?"
She already knows. It's right there on her face. But she wants Darcy to tell her she's seeing things, that she's got it wrong, ha-ha Janey, maybe you should go get your eyes checked.
Only she's exactly right, and Darcy can't bear to lie to her. A single glance confirms it.
"It, uh—it says you're pregnant."
Loki leans back on his hands. The roof of this mobile home has been his perch for some number of hours now. He doesn't really care to count them.
A couple of days lurking about the area has given him the information he needs. Thor is dead—the woman's Soulmark has faded. That much he was able to glimpse for certain this afternoon, as she moved foodstuffs from the vehicle into the tiny domicile. In theory, he is done here.
In theory, he is done.
For what else is there? No longer does Asgard live. There is perhaps a chance that Brynhilde escaped when ordered to, on the jump ship. Just as much a chance that Thanos snapped his fingers and slew her from half a galaxy away. Mayhap Sif, half-Vanir and on Vanaheim at the time of Hela's invasion, lives still. But they are not the blood of Odin. Not the kin of Thor, the beating heart of the Aesir, and neither is he. He is merely a jotun's bastard. Asgard is well and truly gone now, the damage unreversed. Not like the ones the humans knew to save, the ones destroyed in that single moment when the gauntlet was completed. Only some of the damage is undone, and it does not include the destruction of all Loki once knew.
He has made do for himself before, of that there is no doubt. But the part of him satisfied by such things is diminished. The temporary panacea of drifting from realm to realm, planet to planet is gone, fled entirely in the moment he came to know that he was once more Odinson in his munr if not by blood. Nothing in the stars holds any appeal now. Nothing except…
Loki pulls his arms forward, sitting upright. He doesn't need to roll his sleeve back to trace where the markings are; he's had a thousand years to memorize the exact shape and placement of them on his skin. If he stares hard enough at his vambrace, he can almost see them. Perhaps there is only one thing left in his life to do. One thing left to discover.
But two things hinder him: a revelation, and a curiosity. The revelation came hard on the heels of the news about Thor, and it explains why he felt such traces of his brother's presence, despite his death. Because perhaps, perhaps the blood of Asgard is not so thoroughly vanquished as he believes. Perhaps something, some last trace of the mightiest of the Nine Realms can be salvaged, in some form.
It is almost too momentous a thought to consider for long. Loki knows that if he ruminates upon it, he will come to a decision that will demand much of him. He is not so sure he is willing to give it. Because it will require the kind of steadfastness and commitment that has never been in him, changeable child of chaos that he is.
The curiosity is, in its own way, just as powerful. The other woman, not-Foster: she had looked directly at him that afternoon. Without seeing, and yet he has the intuition that he was at least sensed. But that is impossible, for Loki knows how to escape even the eyes of Heimdall, who saw everything else. Even the eye of Odin Borson, All-Father. It is true that he is still weakened, still recovering from his reckless encounter with Thanos, but he is not so weak that a mortal should be able to detect his presence. None of the agents of SHIELD did. Even Jane Foster, whom he tread but inches from to glimpse the writing on her arm, had no sense of his presence at all.
Ultimately, Loki isn't quite sure what moves him.
All he knows is that he's not quite done yet.
"Ugh. Seriously, can we switch to Mario Kart now?" Darcy looks down at her controller and wrinkles her nose.
Jane doesn't exactly laugh at her predicament, but there's a thin little smile on her face, and it's the best thing Darcy's seen all week, so she considers it a victory.
Not, of course, that this means she'll let it go by unremarked-upon. "You shut up and eat your brownies."
"I didn't say anything." The Tetris Queen sets her controller down, too, muting the tinny 8-bit start screen and plucking another of Darcy's chocolate fudge squares of deliciousness from the plate they've been slowly working through since 8 p.m.
Darcy knows she's eventually going to have to guide her boss through doctor's visits and prenatal nutrition and who knows what the fuck else, but very consciously sets all of that aside. Tonight is for sugar comas and video games and sleeping bags on the trailer floor. The rest can come tomorrow. And if Jane's over thirty and Darcy's gonna be pushing it soon, who the fuck cares? Everyone deserves a break sometimes. No one more so right now than Jane does.
Which is, of course, a sure sign that everything's about to go sideways.
There's a small noise behind them. The kind of thing Darcy would normally attribute to the age of the trailer, but she still hasn't forgotten her creepy gut feeling earlier in the day, and so her hand slides into her slouchy purse, flopped on the ground next to her, and closes around the handle of her taser. She turns to stand and face the noise at the same time Jane does and—
Damn. It's probably only a split second, normal human delayed reaction time, but to Darcy it seems to take forever, because she's pretty sure she's never seen a man this beautiful in her entire life. Breath hisses between her teeth, but she isn't even sure if she's pulling it in or expelling it; it feels like the time she tripped over one of the thick equipment wires in the car dealership-slash-astrophysics-lab and hit her head on Erik's desk.
Just—damn.
"You!" Thankfully, Jane has her shit together, and the mixture of surprise and venom in her voice snaps Darcy right the hell out of her daze, thank you very much. She points the taser, biting her tongue to keep from saying something stupid.
The man regards the weapon for a moment, head tilted in something that looks an awful lot like amusement, and just briefly, he meets her eyes. Darcy knows somehow that she's seen that exact, perfect shade of green before, in some form, but she tries not to let her thoughts drift. There's an intruder in their house, and for all she knows he could be bent on killing the both of them. Why he'd want to almost doesn't matter. There are possibilities, and that's enough.
His eyes shift, landing on Jane, and slowly, he raises his hands so that they sit at shoulder height. "I am not here to harm you, Dr. Foster. Quite the opposite." He enunciates slowly, calmly, but this does not stop the lilt of the words from sounding entirely too musical.
Darcy resists the urge to slap herself in the face. What the fuck is wrong with her? She doesn't get like this about men—she doesn't get like this about anyone. Or hasn't, at least. Some of the haze clears, and this time she knows the breath is inwards, bolstering. Her finger shifts to the taser's trigger. "Janey, if you want me to hit him, just say when."
She can't chance the look sideways to take in her boss's expression, but she can hear Jane's breath tremble. "You're supposed to be dead," she says, but her words are swiftly losing the venom, misery rushing in like high tide to fill the vacuum. "Twice over. You're supposed to be dead, and he's supposed to be alive."
At that moment, Darcy knows exactly who this is.
Fuuuuuck.
Loki—he can't be anyone but Thor's dysfunctional little brother, though his sense of Earth-styling is much more on point—actually flinches at that. "Yes," he agrees quietly, and Darcy feels her eyebrows arch. Weird thing to agree to. "But unfortunately it seems the Norns had other plans."
"What do you want?" Miserable, and tired. Oh, Janey.
Loki's lips thin into a compressed line before he speaks. His eyes drop a ways below Jane's, settling momentarily on her abdomen before bouncing right back up. "To do right by my brother's kin. By Asgard."
Jane makes a bitter sound. Darcy thinks it's almost supposed to be an incredulous laugh, but it doesn't come out right. "When have you ever done right by—by him? By Asgard?"
A muscle flexes in Loki's jaw. Darcy's hand tightens on the taser, and she takes a step to the side, putting herself partway between them. She doesn't know if that's a sign of anger or something else, but she's not taking the chance. Even if he is a god. She's tased one of those before, and she'll damn well do it again if he makes her.
"Nevertheless," he grinds out, still making no aggressive motions. "I would like to try."
"I don't trust you." Hard-bitten as the words are, Darcy can sense a change in Jane's body language behind her. She's losing the will to argue. Normally, that would be near impossible for Jane of all people, but it's been a long day. A long couple of months. She's exhausted. They're both exhausted.
Maybe, Darcy thinks, Loki's exhausted, too.
She sees it a little in the slope of his shoulders. "An entirely reasonable-stance," he admits softly. "And yet it does not change my… obligations."
In the moment, Darcy's not quite sure why she does it, but she slides her finger off the taser's trigger and lowers it. Even adrenaline-drunk and sugar-high, it doesn't take long to see that if he wanted to hurt them, he could have done it several times over already. They're two humans—pretty small ones at that—with nothing between them but a taser that honestly probably wouldn't register as more than a tickle to him. He's a god with magic powers and… whatever else. "Jane," she says quietly, but her eyes don't leave Loki. "I'm not sure how much choice we have here." They certainly don't have a damn thing to hold over him.
Jane, brilliant as she is, has to see that, too. It's probably why she finally capitulates, sort of.
"You want to do right by him? Prove it. If none of us are dead in a week, I might believe you." One of her hands clenches in the back of Darcy's shirt, pulling a little at the fabric. "But you sleep outside, take care of yourself, and treat us both with respect."
Loki inclines his head; he's clearly not in any mood to try and wring concessions, either. "As you wish," he replies.
Jane nods. "I'm—I'm going to bed. I have to… sleep on this." She picks up the sleeping bag she was planning to use and brushes past Loki, exiting the trailer and heading for the Pinz.
Darcy wonders if Jane plans to inform SHIELD of the sudden reappearance of a possibly-former supervillain. She's not sure which answer she'd prefer. The taser slips from her numb hand and clatters onto the floor, with a thud loud enough to make her jump. God, today.
Clearing her throat, she tries for an awkward smile and can't hold it more than a twitchy half-second. Her mental filter fails to kick in, as it often does, and she blurts the first thing that comes to mind.
"Honestly, all things considered, that could have gone a lot worse."
For some reason, Loki looks like she punched him. And like it actually did something. Gobsmacked, that's the word. His lips part slightly, face unmoving for a good… five seconds? She's not doing so great with time right now.
"This cannot possibly be happening."
Her words.
Loki, god of Mischief and Lies, would-be dictator of earth, Thor's adopted little brother, has just said her words.
Fuck.
I hear the first chapter was a bit of a gut-punch. This is the two part of a one-two combo, I guess, but things do get a bit brighter from here. But, you know, the course of true love and realm-saving never did run smooth, so…
Feedback always appreciated; I'm kind of floored by the response so far, actually!