A/N: Though I haven't yet put the rating up, this chapter is where the potentially triggering material will start, so reader discretion is advised.

To be back in his own body after so many long hours was a relief. The Allfather was fit for his age, but Loki had missed his own subtle speed and agility. It was also nice to be rid of that awful, scratchy beard.

Loki supposed he should be used to it; two weeks had passed since he had relieved the Allfather of his duties, and nobody in the palace had even the slightest inkling that their beloved King was really a notorious war criminal. No change there, then, Loki had thought bitterly.

Ruling the Nine Realms had actually turned out to be far easier than Loki had dared hope. Odin had scores of advisors and subordinates, each charged with very specific responsibilities. He let them get on with it for the most part, making a few changes as he saw fit. He had spent enough time around his adoptive father to know how he ruled a kingdom. If anyone actually noticed a change in their King's demeanour, they wisely kept silent.

Kingly duties aside, there were serious perks to having the throne. Loki relished the automatic respect his subjects showed him—and he didn't even have to threaten anyone to get it!

Then there was the raised basin of water, tucked away in a corner of the King's vast chambers. Loki had discovered this almost immediately. It was presumably a gift from Heimdall (who Loki had shielded himself from with a few cleverly-placed spells. If the gatekeeper dared to look into the royal suite, he would see only Odin, awake and well) and when Loki looked upon its surface at just the right angle, it became a window to the Realms. He could see anywhere in the Universe with just a few whispered words.

Presently, he leaned over the unnaturally still surface of the water, hands braced on the carved stone basin. He'd focussed on the busy streets of some Midgardian city —he didn't care to remember the name. In the middle of the scene was couple sat at a small table outside an eating establishment, laughing and with their fingers intertwined. The man, muscled, broad-shouldered and with his blond hair secured away from his face in a braid, leaned in to capture the dark-haired woman's lips in a kiss. She playfully swatted him away when the kiss deepened, though she only laughed more.

Loki felt a stab of something for Thor. Was it pain? Pity? Frustration? He had warned him that his happiness with this Midgardian woman would be shortlived, just like her—a few decades and she would be old and frail; a few centuries and she would be dust. Thor didn't appear to care. He was dressed in Midgardian clothes, eating Midgardian food with a Midgardian lover. Loki snorted. It was hardly a life for Asgard's crown prince and finest warrior.

Something in the background of the picture made him stop. He leaned closer, nose almost breaking the water's surface. In the midst of the crowd that swarmed the cobbled street there was a hunched figure, dressed entirely in black. The figure had its back to him, but Loki guessed it was a woman by the coppery hair that hung down to her elbows. However, it wasn't this that caught his attention.

The woman was surrounded by a faint, shimmering green haze.

Interest piqued, Loki shifted the image to focus on the woman. She seemed in a hurry, hands stuffed in her pockets and eyes fixed firmly on the ground. The haze was definitely following her, though it was weak. The god frowned. He had only ever seen this phenomenon when he turned his gaze to the likes of Asgard. Those gifted in the magical arts were perpetually shrouded in emerald, almost as if the Allfather had been keeping track of the presence of magic in his kingdom.

There was no way this frightened-looking woman could be a renegade Aesir living on Midgard. Which meant—

Loki straightened, lips curling up into a smile.

He stole a glance at the real Odin, lying on his back in his huge bed, dead to the world. He wouldn't be waking up for a while, Loki had ensured that.

First he would find out if his suspicions were correct, and then...then things would get rather interesting.

Molly ran the last few steps to her flat. She felt like a saucepan about to boil over, but it was one of her Rules that she could never, ever, ever cry where anybody could see her. People might start asking questions.

She shut the door behind her, and it closed with a barely-audible, still-too-loud click. She let her bag fall from her arm to land with a muffled thud on the floor.

Closing the door on the outside world was like opening another inside her.

It wasn't that she fell to the floor, really. It was just that her legs decided her body was no longer worth supporting, and gave up.

Then the tears began, as they always did—first with a tremor of her lips, then everything blurred and her eyes itched. A blink, and the tears rolled down her cheeks, only to be replaced as soon as they were gone.

Molly's hands twisted fistfuls of hair as she sobbed—but quietly, so the neighbours wouldn't know—and it was all she could do to hold on and grit her teeth as the sadness broke free, shaking her to the core.

She lost track of how long she stayed that way, in a crumpled heap, her body curled around itself almost protectively. She wasn't even sure what she was crying about, only that it was all she could do to let it out. She'd had a stressful day—why did everyone who visited the supermarket she worked in have to be so rude?—but she was certain her co-workers didn't do this every night, collapse on the floor and try not to crumble to dust. She wiped the tears away angrily. All the people in the world, and it had to be her. He'd chosen to make her like this, and it wasn't fair.

Carefully, Molly unfolded herself and kicked off her boots before padding through to the bathroom. She stripped out of her black uniform and scooped up her pyjamas from the floor where she'd dumped them earlier.

As she pulled the soft cotton shirt over her head, something metallic and shiny caught her eye. On the counter sat one of Molly's many razor blades. She didn't recall leaving it there, though she had been in a rush that morning. She approached it as if in a dream, picking it up and holding it so that the light slid smoothly along its silver edge.

It was an old one, dull and with rust creeping along the sides. There were still some brownish specks tainting the metal from its last use. Still, the blade seemed to wink at her.

You know you want me. You want me on your skin, it purred. Use me.

Molly shook her head. It had been nearly a week since she had last cut. She felt like shit, but she wasn't going to break now. Before she could change her mind, she threw the blade in the bin, where it belonged.

She knew she'd left a meal bubbling away in the slow cooker, but just the smell of food made her want to gag. It didn't matter. It would still be there later.

With barely the energy to put one foot in front of the other, Molly traipsed into her tiny, dark bedroom and collapsed on the unmade bed. The speed with which sleep washed over her was a blessing.

"You like that, don't you, bitch?"

"No! Lewis, please stop!"

His thin face gaped into a smile like a wound reopening, revealing yellowed teeth and breath that reeked of tobacco. Molly tried to turn her face away, but that smile was everywhere she looked. His fingers rubbed insistently against her underwear, and tears pricked at her eyes as she tried to arch away from him.

"Oh, don't cry," the older boy cooed. "Enjoy it. Not like anyone else is going to want to finger a fat slut like you." He crushed her harder against the lockers, and she prayed for someone—a teacher, another student, anyone—to round the corner and see, call for help, get him away from her.

Right as he was about to pull her underwear aside, her eyes shot open, lashes already damp with tears.

There was another face inches away from her own.

The green-eyed man leaning over her smiled.

"Boo."