A/N: Hey, everyone! So, I'm honestly not dead. I'm sorry for the long wait! I actually worked on this fairly diligently for me; it's just that I'm such a slow writer – it's painful. But at least its long? It felt almost never-ending to me.
This chapter's from Thor's P.O.V. The next will be from Loki's. And it'll seesaw between the two of them from now on.
Not sure how I feel about this chapter. There are bits I like, bits I don't like. I'm finishing it late and I tried to go over it, but I'm disoriented, as usual. Please forgive any typos!
There are quite a few long, rambly-type paragraphs in this chapter. These were done on purpose to reflect a troubled and panicked mind.
This author's note is way too long, so I'm going to stop it here.
THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN FOR THE LOVELY COMMENTS AND INTEREST IN THIS STORY. THEY KEEP ME GOING. I LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU ALL!
ABECrudele: I hope I can eventually live up to your need for chills! The story hasn't reached its horror-mode yet, but it will once the plot thickens. Also – thank you so much! I appreciate the interest. Haha, you'll find out who Eleanor is soon enough. Probably next chapter. It's not a big secret.
SPIKE: Oh, wow. I don't deserve such an emotional response. I'M HONORED YOU FELT SO MUCH!
Wings of Darkness: Thank you so much! That really means a lot – especially what you said about the descriptions! Lol, I agree, Loki is quite beautiful!
Soulbook: Sorry for the mean ending! Luckily, this chapter picks up almost exactly where the last one left off. Thanks for reading!
Kiri: Thank you! I know, I feel bad torturing Loki so x_x
Guest #1: You are honestly too good to me! Thank you so much!
Guest #2: Wow, thanks a lot! I'm sorry the update took so long!
Suishou Haruka: Thanks so much! Are you asking how its possible for a hotel to give two different people a card to the same room? I know it's a little unbelievable. I'm asking for some benefit of the doubt just to get the story rolling. But still, I attempt to explain how that happened in this chapter. Hopefully it satisfies you!
Gina: You loved how I described Loki? /blushes/ Wow, that's high praise! Thanks!
Guest #3: And thank you for reading! I'm honored!
The-Rave-Angel: Thank you! I hope I do not disappoint!
Tj: Wow, you are such a sweet person. Thank you so much for the really touching comment. It means a lot. Don't worry about me – I stress, but I have a lot of support to help me out. xD And thanks so much for your beautiful words about last chapter! I'm honored that you enjoyed it!
"Hello,
Hello,
Hello,
Beautiful Stranger.
How familiar the danger,
Slipping into the
Shadows."
"Beautiful Stranger," The Devil's Carnival
Chapter Two
White
It's the acidic whiteness of the place that really bothers him.
Thor rubs bloodshot eyes, groaning into his palm. He tries to block out the whiteness of the hospital, a searing, soulless hue that burns into his retinas and digs, needlelike, into his aching thoughts. He does not understand how doctors and nurses scurry down such shining halls, breathing in the overpowering antiseptic, the biting ammonia, everything scoured ruthlessly or wrapped in airtight plastic: it's more than cleanliness, it's a sterile hell, a disinfected massacre, killing life along with germs. He does not know how anyone could survive in such manufactured whiteness.
And the artificial blaze of the headlights makes him nauseous.
Oh why, oh why, oh why did he drink so much?
The receptionist had handed him the wrong key. It's completely absurd, a ridiculous blunder to make at a five-star hotel – but it happened all the same. Some mishap with the computer, or some sort of negligence on the receptionist's part; Thor had only been half-listening while the woman stammered her explanations. Ultimately, she had thought the room was empty and activated his key (the generic plastic card) to open the stranger's door. The details did not matter much to him. The receptionist had shrieked her apologies, high and birdlike, her words spinning dizzyingly around his alcohol-drenched brain.
Even the manager had come down, bald and uptight, his spectacles catching lamplight and sparking dangerously, screaming admonishments at his employee and simpering pleas for forgiveness to his wealthy customer. Their voices were a hailstorm of panic and hysteria, a mingled mess of excuses – utterly useless. They did nothing to wipe away the blood or the morbidity of the situation. They barely existed to him.
Thor was only aware of the blood and the water and the body on the floor.
It had been the cleaning man who first heard Thor's cries for help. He had been working overtime, and thankfully saw Thor shove open his door and call out hoarsely over the sound of the running showerhead. He was the one who dialed 911; the one who alerted the staff and turned off the water. And it was his voice that roused the sleepers in the other rooms. A sensible black woman from down the hallway knew enough to bind the man's bleeding wrists with cloth (they needed small strips, something she could tie tightly; towels wouldn't do; Thor offered her his undershirt shakily, allowing her to tear it to pieces) until the medics appeared.
Thor had done nothing. He had hovered senseless in the doorway, stumbling and shouting and spouting slurred statements – "What's going on?" "Is he going to be alright?" "What's – what's happening?" "Is this – real? I – I don't know; I'm drunk, I'm drunk!" – and watched with overwhelming anxiety as the woman kneeled in the red, as she pressed palms and bandages against the man's wounds. It was all so nightmarish, so unreal, unreal.
He had never felt so pointless, so very helpless.
The man and the blood and the water and the whole time Thor did nothing, nothing, nothing – and honestly, what could he do?
Thor sighs now, his large shoulders hunched as he leans forward on his elbows. He will never forget that feeling, that detestable helplessness, so foul, so unlike him. He feels strangely hollow and strangely restless, as though uncomfortable in his own body: this proud, sculpted, powerful body, and it had stood still as a stone, as meaningless as a rock, unable to do anything as the paramedics laid a long white body in a stretcher…
And tomorrow, perhaps that same cleaner, the very one that called 911, would be scrubbing red out of the bathroom tiles.
Oh God.
Why do the lights in this place make Thor so queasy? Why did he drink so much?
The manager had begged him to stay, implored him to take another available room ("Free of charge, of course, sir!"), but Thor could not stay there. Instead he stood shivering in the midnight air as they packed the stranger into a screaming ambulance, his top still carelessly unbuttoned from removing his undershirt. The paramedics crawled around the stretcher, like buzzards on a corpse, attaching what looked like wires and IVs and all sorts of medical equipment that Thor didn't recognize: needles digging into translucent flesh, oxygen masks hooked over bloodless lips.
Dimly, underneath the roaring in his drunk mind, Thor realized he should stay behind and let the vehicle whiz down the electric-bright streets and disappear.
But he could not do this, somehow, he could not, could not. Some unexplainable force propelled him forward, into the shifting crowd of medics, his throat raw and fierce as he cried out –
"I found him! Let me come – I found him!"
There was a pandemonium of dissent at these words.
"Sir, I'm going to ask you to step away –"
"I found him!"
"He's in critical condition!"
"Then I must come! I found him! I found him!"
"Sir, sir –"
And another voice, "Just let him come, Richard, we don't have time – !"
So Thor clambered into the ambulance after the stretcher, a small, hot, crowded space, his whole body curled in panic or claustrophobia (he could not tell which), jostling down roads blazing with gigantic glowing billboards and sparkling skyscrapers. He did not regret his decision, but the closeness of the environment was stifling, and alcohol and confusion unraveled his vision into blotchy snapshots of light and motion. Sweat was like ice on his fevered skin. Thor had never passed out before, but he had imagined that this was what it would feel like, a vague, sweat-soaked delirium, bordered with a glittering blackness.
His only constant was the face before him, looking barely human behind the oxygen mask, so limp – the face of a stranger, but, oh God, he would never forget that face – beneath all the equipment, it was like a silken mask, so white, so cold, so lifeless – so striking, framed in matted black hair. Oh God, oh God, Thor could never forget that face, not for as long as he lived, it had been etched permanently in this thoughts, engraved forever on the inside of his skull; it hung like a phantom before his closed eyes.
And then they were at the hospital, and that face had been rushed away from him.
The rest is unimportant. Someone – he cannot remember who – ushered him into a seat in the hospital lobby and forced a cup of water into his hands.
He stares at this now while he sits; a tiny thing cradled in large, rough palms. It's one of those pathetic paper cups that hold about an inch of lukewarm water, and when you take a sip, it tastes of dust and plastic. Thor stirs the measly puddle of liquid, his jaw wired shut, his stomach like a tight, knotty stone.
He's always disliked water dispensers. The water is never fresh – how can it be when it sits idly in a tank all day? – and athletes need fresh water.
Yes.
Thor thrives on fresh water – he thinks he could drink about a gallon every day, as long as it is clean, and very cold.
Yes.
Clean and cold.
Water.
And it's very good to think about water, it's very soothing. Bad water, fresh water. It's safe, safe, it's comfortable. It's boring. The dullness of it cushions his throbbing brain, wraps around his thoughts like a shroud: water, water, water, and not how the blood must have seeped through the floor and into the very mortar that cements the tiles in place; and how dark the red looked, how vivid in the shadows, like a poison; and how deeply he must have cut for that sea of crimson to spurt – and why? – and how small the body was, so thin, a half-curled, white thing, slender and pale and how could so much red pour from such a slight body and what must he have been thinking when he – and why? – and his face, still, still, so still in its almost-death and like a mask or something porcelain and Thor will never forget that face and he'll always be wondering how it looked when he – and why, why, why? – and is he dead or is he alive and is it too late and could Thor have done something and no, no, he's just a stranger and oh God, oh God, he did that to himself; why did he do that to himself; who does that to himself?
No – no. The water.
He must focus on the water.
Like the water blossoming beneath a bloodless man like some grotesque, pink flower –
Thor crunches the cup in his hand, sloshing droplets all down his fingers. He doesn't notice. And he doesn't think he can stay here, though he knows he must, though he knows he will not be able to sleep until he hears – until he knows –
is he alive or is he dead and is it too late and could Thor have done something
And now there's this foreign feeling in his throat, an itch, and he can't breathe properly.
"…yes. I'm Gajra Hansini…I'm here about Loki Laufeyson – he's a client of mine; I just received the phone call…is there any news on him? Yes…thank you…I'll take a seat –"
Thor lifts his gaze to the Indian woman talking to the receptionist. She has a smooth, self-assured voice, and he hopes her conversation will distract him since the cup of water has clearly failed. She's a tall figure with caramel-colored skin and thick, straight black hair, dressed rather professionally for this hour, a large red handbag hanging from her shoulder.
He blinks when she turns on her heel and walks straight toward him.
Normally, Thor smiles at women. But now he only slouches forward, feeling the alcohol ebb out of his system, leaving him raw and low and aching. A dull throb has settled behind his left eye, and Thor expects that sometime tomorrow morning it will feel like a dozen javelins being driven into his skull. But now there's only a muffling exhaustion that weighs on his limbs like lead and a velvety nausea that furs the back of his throat.
The woman chooses the chair directly next to him. Thor wonders, vaguely, whether she knows who he is, whether she will attempt to flirt with him or ask for his autograph, but she only crosses her legs, her expression harried. He feels grateful. Her nails are perfectly painted orange squares on slim brown fingers. They squeeze the bridge of her nose in a tired gesture.
"Oh, God, Loki…" she sighs.
Thor debates over whether he should ask her what has happened or not. She is here alone, but then, so is he.
He does not have to debate long. She turns to him suddenly, her dark eyes reflective and questioning, compassionate.
"Are you quite alright?"
"Uh –?" Thor grunts in response, jerking his gaze in her direction.
The woman smiles. A faded, wraithlike thing. "I asked if you were alright."
"I –" Thor stares down at his hands, nonplussed. She's asking if he's well? He's a grown man and he's Thor Odinson; of course, he's well. But when tries to say this, a rush of oh God he did that to himself; who does that to himself? burbles to his lips and he has to shut his mouth to keep it from spilling over.
The woman does not appear surprised or offended by his response. Or lack thereof.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask. I suppose it's in my nature – I'm a therapist."
Thor grunts again, bobbing his head. And he's usually so much smoother than this. Not that he cares about that right now. Why is this woman talking to him?
She clears her throat. "It's only…" Her pause seesaws on the air for a minute, before, "– Are you Thor Odinson?"
She's going to ask for his autograph.
Thor takes a breath, wondering how he can phrase 'For-once-I-really-don't-feel-like-signing-anything-because-I'm-exhausted-and-a-little-bothered,' but the woman plunges on, cutting across his thoughts, "Because, if you are, you found my client in your hotel room, and I want to thank you for acting so quickly –"
And he thought she wanted his autograph. Heat smothers his face.
Words feel awkward, heavy in his mouth, and he fumbles with his response. "I…yes, I'm Thor…I…"
Why is he acting like this? Yes, it's horrible, it's terrible, but he has no personal connection to this man.
The woman has a warm, open, though shrewd face. She watches him carefully as she extends her hand.
"I'm Gajra Hansini. The man you found…his name is Loki. He's my patient. I'm – so sorry about this."
"It's not your fault," Thor responds automatically, but some small part of him mutters Why didn't you prevent this?
Gajra shakes her head, looking sad, tired, but not at all shocked. A haggard air clings to her, almost as if she expects this sort of thing, even if she laments it; as though it has happened many, many times before. The idea disturbs Thor – it's a shard of ice in his chest.
"Oh, Loki," she breathes softly, "And he told me he felt just fine yesterday. But that's the way he is, of course. He's quite the charismatic liar," she shrugs her shoulders with a mirthless little laugh, "Thank you, again. For…saving him."
This jars Thor. Saved. She said saved.
"There is no need to thank me," he says heavily, fighting the bitter revulsion that builds up in his throat when he remembers his helplessness, his drunken shouts, "I did not do nearly as much as I should have. I just opened the door and –"
He breaks off, abruptly, but Gajra places a purposeful hand on his arm.
"You shouldn't say that about yourself, Thor. There is only so much a person can do in this sort of situation. There is no point in dwelling on what has happened. You brought him here. You have done what you could. Now you must let go."
Her voice is slow and poised and even, her every word carefully chosen, firmly stated. Thor supposes she speaks to her patients this way. Speaks to Loki Laufeyson this way.
What is this unfamiliar tightness in his throat?
"I…know."
But Gajra does not appear satisfied. She leans forward, her expression full of polite concern; her hair sifting like dark silk over her features.
"Thor Odinson. The great football player – am I right? Is this your first time dealing with something like this?"
The question is so forthright. So pushy. So true.
Thor throws her a disturbed, wild expression. Who is she to ask him this? What right does she have? She has confused him with one of her mewling patients, soft, fragile, frightened things, moaning piteously and wringing their hands, bruising easily. But he is Thor Odinson. He's bold, he's fearless, he's thunder personified – he's not going to quail at something as – as – admittedly jarring, but as – well, he's not going to quail at something like this. His bones are made of steel and his soul is the tumultuous eye of a storm; his eyes are burning blue lightning and – he thrives on danger and – even if, truthfully, this is alien to him – and even if oh God, he did that to himself; who does that to himself? – but he's Thor Odinson, so –
"I don't see why that matters," he mutters.
But Gajra surveys him pressingly. "Why are you getting so upset?"
Were all therapists this annoying?
"I'm not one of your patients," Thor says raggedly, but in his mind there's the bathroom and the blood and the white face, and he's overcome with a sensation like a thousand needles piercing his body. The paper cup (completely mutilated at this point) slips from his sweaty fingers.
Gajra bobs her head in a simple nod.
"Alright," she responds easily, kindly, almost glibly, and Thor gawks. How could such pushiness dissipate so quickly? Truly, therapists are a breed all their own.
He grunts once more and turns away from her. The silence that settles between them is taut and breakable, like an elastic band stretched too far. And it's loud. It floods Thor's eardrums with phantom sounds: the wail of the sirens, the confused, hysterical jumble of voices that was the hotel lobby; he hears the screech of tires and the clatter of medical equipment and his own drunken voice, lost, lost, so lost in the chaos – and the faint whisper of water falling in the dark, the incessant drip of the shower and facet, an insidious song, mingling with the blood.
The lights in this place make him ill. The air here is too cold. Thor fidgets, uncomfortable, and wonders how the therapist can remain so still, so motionless, so damnably, utterly calm. Her patient is dying. Her patient might already be dead. Thor feels something hot and prickly crawling up from the pit of his stomach, forcing its way into his throat. It tastes metallic, like blood – blood in his mouth. Her patient might be dead. He might be dead and Thor was drinking a few hours ago, a few petty hours ago, he was sitting at a sumptuous banquet and laughing and smiling and drinking, and all the while, this person Thor has never met before, has never even thought of before, this poor, haunted stranger that Thor never knew existed, he was sitting in a hotel room and actually thinking about killing himself, was thinking about taking a knife and –
"People just don't do things like this," Thor does not want to say it, but the words swell behind his mouth and he can no longer dam them in with clamped lips. His hands clench the arms of his seat, heat bursting along his pores. Once again, he toys with the mortifying possibility that he could pass out – but he's Thor Odinson, not some feeble maiden in a black-and-white film, and he's not going to slip into a swoon.
Still, everything is hot, hot, hot. And he thought it was cold in here?
"People just don't do things like this," he repeats again, more fiercely.
Gajra meets his gaze, patient, unsurprised.
"Do things like what?" she prods gently.
And Thor cannot stop himself, he cannot, cannot, "Things like this!" He exclaims in a fit of rage he cannot explain, throwing out an arm in a meaningless gesture, causing a few other late-night hospital goers to jump, "Things like – people don't try to kill themselves! It's not natural – it's not normal," and Thor realizes the heat is not a symptom of a faint, it's anger, a deep, brooding, intense anger, a fury for this haunted stranger whose so sad and pathetic that he slices himself open in hotel bathrooms, "How could – how could he want to die? How could anyone want to die?"
"Thor," Gajra says carefully, her voice firm, but soft, "Please sit back down."
Thor blinks and discovers he's on his feet. His lungs feel crushingly close; too shriveled to breathe. But he does not sit.
"You're right, Thor," the woman remarks, faintly, sadly, "It's not normal. But Loki is not a normal person. He needs help."
"And has he no one to help him?" Thor thunders, resentment mounting with every word he spits out; anger pours like liquid fire into the hollow cavity in his chest, dispersing the nausea and the tightness and the itch in his throat; it's familiar and it's comforting, this anger; it's the opposite of weakness, "Has he no family? No friends? No loved ones? Only you are here – and this is your job."
His volume does not rattle Gajra. She watches him with a ghost playing across her features.
"No," she breathes, simply, "Loki has no family. He has no friends, no loved ones. He has no one."
Coldness douses Thor's rage. He thinks of the face again, so white behind the oxygen mask, the black hair spilling luxuriously over the deathly pallor. Has no one ever touched that face? It must feel so cold, so cold.
He thinks about the blood. Blood, everywhere.
"I don't understand," he says shortly.
Gajra gestures to his empty seat, "Sit down and I will explain."
Thor collapses and all the fire drains from his body. An iciness creeps up his arms, like damp fingers submerged in a freezing sea, running over his skin. The queasiness is back, a jumpy sickness that makes him lightheaded, nearly blurring his vision.
"You should know I do care about Loki," Gajra states, a touch defensively, "Very much so. I'm not counseling him for the money."
He nods, suddenly speechless, humiliated by the way his hands shake.
"But people don't do things like this," he repeats for the third time, only its tired now, ragged.
"Why?" Gajra prompts, and Thor stares at her. She presses forward, "Why do you keep saying that?"
He stares at her, fumbling clumsily for an explanation, "Because–"
Because Thor's life is beautiful. He lives a gilded existence, a fine, wondrous, rollicking life, steeped in success and fortune and admiration, and everyone and everything he encounters is as golden as he. Logically, of course, Thor knows there are people who suffer; he knows there are people burdened with pains and woes and misfortunes – he donates to charities, doesn't he? – but death and illness and agony are nothing but paychecks, something faraway, for faceless people, people he does not know, people he will never know. They are only half-real. They are muted shadows, flitting mildly on the periphery of his glittering life, vague shapes outside his iridescent bubble. They were the stories his mother would preach about when he returned home late from parties, inebriated and wasteful. They were real, but they weren't real. Real life is golden – real life is good.
Gajra waits for his response.
"Because – how can he have no one?"
The therapist frowns. "He's an orphan," she explains delicately, "And he has no relatives willing to communicate with him."
"He has no wife? No girlfriend?"
"He has no partner, no."
Thor blinks, momentarily confused, "Partner…?"
Gajra nods, oblivious to the question hanging in his voice, "No partner, no boyfriend."
Oh.
Oh, oh, oh.
Thor feels an unexpected heat seize him. Why should that happen?
He should have recognized that term, anyway. Well, it's late, and he's tired.
"But how –" he splutters, "How can he have made no connections with other people?"
For the first time, Gajra appears a little speechless. She takes a small, hesitant breath, her brown hands crumpled in her lap, then continues,
"Because he…because Loki has gone through many – many painful trials. Very early in life. And they have kept him from trusting people," she pauses, grave with unspoken secrets, "And they keep others from wanting to get close to him."
Thor does not understand. Has this man done nothing but wander down haunted, desolate lanes, an island unto himself, invisible to others? Has no one – besides his therapist – ever spoken to him? Has no one ever told him that things could be alright – that they could get better – that he could get better?
And what's wrong with him?
What could possibly be so bad –?
"What…happened to him? Did he ever tell you…?" His inquiry is a shadow, a blot on the hospital's tailored whiteness.
Gajra answers almost immediately, her tone clipped and mechanical, "I am not authorized to disclose anything a patient says during our sessions."
Thor recoils from the response, as if bruised, "I did not mean to pry –!"
And Thor's a stranger, anyway – why does he need to know? What does it matter? He's performed his civil duties; he took an ailing man to the hospital. They will probably write this up in the papers tomorrow. The idea clenches Thor's stomach, coats his mouth in a gritty flavor.
But Gajra's smile melts away the tension.
"No, no…it's alright. You're a good person, Thor. This must be shocking for you…" Oh God, there's that tightness in Thor's throat again, that insatiable itch; he wants to tell Gajra to stop talking, but he does not know how, "But that does not make you a weak person. You've performed wonderfully today. I'm…I'm sure you've saved Loki's life –" She's sure? She's sure? And what if her surety is a falsehood; will he be responsible for Loki's death? "…And the way you're feeling makes you human. Never be ashamed of that. That's what makes you strong."
Oh God, this is slow torture. Thor cranes his head back, staring directly into the electric lights overhead, letting the fluorescence steal over him. There's a burning in his eyes, and Thor realizes, with a humiliating jolt, that it's not from the radiance.
"You don't know me," he mutters, shutting his eyes, mortified. And this isn't happening. Oh God, this isn't happening. He's Thor Odinson, after all. Thor Odinson. He wouldn't –
Gajra's words swirl over him, inescapable, "I've probably seen more of the real you in this conversation than any one of your fans and teammates."
Thor opens his mouth, wanting to remind her that he's not her patient; that she's not even close to knowing him; wanting to ask her more – but at that moment, a doctor pushes himself through a pair of nondescript doors and strides toward him, and the rest of the world disappears.
Thor stands up abruptly, his stomach falling away.
"Ms. Hansini?" The doctor, crumpled-looking and exhausted, addresses the woman who stands rigid besides him.
"Yes –?" Gajra's response is a short, brittle breath, snapping off roughly in the air.
Thor cannot see. All his senses have been blinded, clouded, smothered. His entire body writhes in some unexplainable, inexplicable agony.
"We've stabilized him. He's…going to be fine."
"Oh, thank God," the therapist nearly shouts, and her reaction reaches Thor before he registers the doctor's announcement. He senses her hand on his arm, gripping tightly at tendons, and her choky exclamations swarm around him, a dizzying crescendo of relief and joy and tears, and every "Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank God!" sounds like the drop of a golden pin from faraway, echoing, echoing, until he finally acknowledges what she's saying, what the doctor's saying, and a weightlessness bubbles up from his center to the tips of his fingers.
It's over. It's finally over.
There's a wet glimmer over Gajra's eyes, all professionalism lost. "Can I go see him now?"
The doctor nods, gesturing towards the white doors. Thor makes to follow the woman, but a white-clad arm cuts in front of him, blocking his path. Thor blinks confusedly.
"I'm sorry, sir," the doctor states, a little deferentially (he must be a Thunderers fan), but his voice is firm behind his strained expression, "Only family members…er – well, only Ms. Hansini is authorized to see Laufeyson at this moment."
"But I found him!" Thor blusters, as if this will change matters. He doesn't understand why he does not just leave; there's no reason for him to sit down in a hospital room and stare at an unconscious man who slit his wrists and ruined his night in Manhattan – and yet something inside Thor snarls at this injustice, "I was the one who found him!"
The doctor looks stricken, but Gajra simply smiles.
"He won't be awake now, Thor, and you should really get some sleep. Here," she digs her hand in her shiny red bag and pulls out a neat little card, "If you still want to see Loki tomorrow, I can arrange something. Call the second number listed. I'll pick up. Just call before five p.m."
Thor accepts the card wordlessly, an irrational fury still pounding in his temples.
I found him, a bitter, exhausted, hung-over voice mumbles in his ear, And I don't even get to see how he fares?
There's the click of shoes on linoleum as Gajra heads towards the doors. Towards the stranger.
Towards Loki.
"And Thor."
The therapist's call shatters Thor's thoughts, distracts him from the simmering resentment. When he looks into her dark eyes, they seem almost calculating.
"Try to come tomorrow. I think it would be good for Loki to talk to you."
Laufeyson.
It's not until Thor returns to the hotel (against his better judgment; but does he really want to search for another place at this hour?) that he realizes something.
Laufeyson.
It's the surname of a criminal, the infamous crime lord who preys on the underground markets of lower Brooklyn. Laufey, they call him on the streets. He has not yet been arrested, but Thor's father says he commits sins unspeakable. Trafficking human organs, bottling up children's hearts in jars, hiding them in freezers. Among other things.
His organization is named 'Jotunheim,' and he sits complacently at its center, hiding in its many folds.
He has a bastard son
(or so they say)
a baby left abandoned in the snow. (to die)
He was found outside with the trash cans.
Thor knows this because everyone knows this. And everyone knows this because it was written in the papers. And it was written in the papers because a long long time ago (or at least it feels long ago to Thor – he had only been ten at the time) a group of children from the orphanage his father sponsors was kidnapped and brutalized and murdered. There had been one survivor.
His name was Loki Laufeyson.
They wrote about his whole life in the papers.
The next day Thor calls Sif, but not his parents.
He's aware that this scenario will inevitably be on the news; his name will inevitably be mentioned; and his mother will inevitably see the report and inevitably panic.
But Thor does not think he could speak to her about it now. He can barely talk about it with Sif – the memories and sensations from last night come roiling back to him, weighing heavy and leaden on his tongue, and he has trouble verbalizing them. He tries to blot out the revelation he had back in the hotel room; tries to ignore the morbid connection between the white face behind the oxygen mask and the blurry image of a little boy on a newspaper cover from years ago.
Why didn't I realize this last night?
Trials, Gajra had called it. Many painful trials. Very early in life.
She conveniently forgets to mention that these "trials" have been thoroughly dissected in newspaper articles and media.
"Wait, Thor, explain this again – you found him in your hotel room?"
Thor tries to clear his thoughts. "Yes. He – he was already in the room when I got there."
Sif is silent on the other end for a moment. "How is that possible? How could your card open his door?"
His head aches dully. He does not feel like discussing the mechanics of this.
"The receptionist forgot someone had taken that room, and so she assigned me to the same room number."
"She forgot?"
A little needle of pain bursts in Thor's skull.
"Yes, Sif, she forgot – she –" He sighs, running rough fingertips through blonde hair, "Listen, I know it makes no sense. I'm not trying to say it does. But it happened. And the receptionist might have been incompetent, but if she hadn't made that mistake, the man would be dead right now –"
Thor stops speaking, oddly strangled.
A strained silence wedges between them, hard and unyielding as stone.
"I know, Thor," Sif says carefully, "He's very lucky you found him. I'm glad he survived. But are…are you okay?"
Thor does not answer.
"Thor?"
He swallows, angry with himself for being so emotional, angry with Sif for being so perceptive, angry with Loki Laufeyson for being so hurt and ruined and suicidal.
"…I'm fine. Of course, I'm fine. Haven't you ever known me not to be fine?"
The effort sounds gaudy and false, even to him. He imagines Sif frowning on the other side.
"Thor…"
He ignores her tone. "Do me a favor, will you, Sif? Call my parents. The press will hear about this eventually and I'd rather them hear about it from you first."
"Why don't you call them? They'd rather hear it from you."
"I have somewhere I need to be."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm going to see him," Thor retorts, a little more abrasively than he meant, "Laufeyson. I'm going to see him today. In the hospital."
He expects Sif to argue with him. He expects her to tell him that he's done a good deed and Laufeyson's alive because of him and he should be relieved but now his part's finished and Loki Laufeyson is not – has never been – his responsibility.
She doesn't.
"Alright," she says, "I understand. Just be careful about what you say. They'll be reporters all over the place."
Her prediction is right, of course.
Thor exits the hotel only to be assaulted by throngs of reporters, all writhing for a statement, a sea of microphones jutting in his direction, shrieks and calls and questions battering him left and right. How could the media discover this so quickly? Not only the reporters, but a substantial crowd of bystanders linger around the streets, eying the bustle with curious eyes. Thor feels sick. Normally, he thrives on the bustle and hype, smiling broadly at cameras, waving at strangers; but now it's a nuisance and a curse, crushing him from all sides, a hungry mob clamoring for horror stories. How could people be this excited about something this horrible?
"Odinson, is it true –!"
"Did you really find the Warehouse Kid–?"
"Mr. Odinson, are you aware that Laufeyson attended the orphanage that your father –?"
Thor shoves past hives of churning bodies and microphones, his hangover – or is it lack of sleep? – pounding in his temples, irritation clawing up his back as the voices surge forward. It's never been very difficult to spark his temper, and Thor has to rein in the flames lapping at his insides now. These people are not roaring in celebration or chanting their admirations to his success; they're gasping and screaming in ecstasy over a broken man's attempted suicide and a rich man's coincidental discovery. He needs to remind himself that these reporters are not the thickset opponents he bulldozes on football fields, and if he strikes one of them, no matter how deserving, he'll be met with shame rather than applause. He needs to ignore them. Ignore, ignore, ignore, but they pour in from all sides, like an infestation, like a plague. Thor's always criticized celebrities who moan about their publicity, but pushing his way through this crowd, with thorny, heartless questions hurled at him, he cannot help but agree. The paparazzi are full of piranhas.
"I'm not answering any questions," Thor growls as a woman shouts an inquiry in his ear, "I told you, I'm NOT answering any questions!"
Some have the audacity to follow him into the parking lot (he had the restaurant's lot attendant move his car to the hotel's space last night), and they don't quit until he shuts his car door and effectively shuts them out.
The reporters infuriate Thor enough to distract him from his current situation. He backs his Mercedes messily into the streets, too blinded by rage to glance at his rearview mirror; he swerves recklessly around corners, cutting off traffic, cursing at the chorus of horns that blare in response. He grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white; brilliant, furious stars burst behind his vision, clouding his mind in an angry smoke; he imagines breaking every microphone with his bare hands; imagines shocked reporters and stricken bystanders scattering at the force of his ire…
Overhead thunder rumbles.
Thor breathes deeply and eases his foot off the accelerator. He's almost at the hospital and he does not want his mood to blacken an already tentative encounter. The man is sick and recovering, anyway. He does not need the added stress.
But as the hospital looms closer, cold, vast, impersonal, a granite fortress, Thor feels another emotion replace his resentment: apprehension. It starts as a queasiness in the pit of his stomach, but works its way into his hands as he jerkily parks the car, a dozen needles jiving into sweaty palms. The building feels almost alive to him: he thinks it watches him as he steps out of the driver's seat, its dull windows like the many eyes of some unsleeping giant, staring with a slow, predatory gaze.
He does not have to do this. It's not like he owes Laufeyson anything. He could head home right now – he could sleep in his own bed, recline in his own chairs, watch some of his old games – and forget about this. Forget about the blood and the face and the name. Laufeyson, the suicidal son of a crime lord. Found outside with the trash and the snow. Maybe somebody owes him something, but it's not Thor. It's not Thor's fault that he's suicidal. It's not Thor's fault that life has been unfair to him. Loki, Laufey's son. Thor does not owe him anything. He owes him nothing. Nothing, nothing.
The air in the hospital lobby still smells of antiseptic.
Thor chokes on it, gritting his teeth as he makes his way to the receptionist. He means to ask the man where Loki's room is located, but a voice jolts him from his task.
"Thor! Over here!"
He turns in time to see Gajra striding toward him. As she instructed, Thor had called her earlier today, confirming that he still wanted to visit her client. She had been as erratic and touchy on the phone as she was in person: sometimes stern and professional, other times gushing and sympathetic. Honestly, Thor cannot say he likes the woman. He knows her intentions are pure, but he has never met someone so incredibly pushy, so determined to coerce perfect strangers into admitting things they don't want to talk about.
Then again, she's a therapist. Thor supposes therapists are meant to be pushy about delicate subjects, and Loki, who's clearly very troubled, would need an exceptionally nervy therapist.
She passes a few hurried statements to the receptionist and taps Thor's shoulder, almost businesslike.
"This way."
Thor's heart thumps faster as they crowd onto the elevator – a close, cramped space that reminds him of the ambulance. Why should he feel this way? Laufeyson is just a man, just a man.
Ding, ding, ding, they keep going up floors.
Gajra is saying something, but Thor does not hear her. He does not want to hear her. The elevator is hot, swelteringly hot, and it keeps speeding upwards. He pictures that crinkled newspaper with the bulky header – MUTILATED BOY DISCOVERED HIDING IN THE CARNAGE OF FELLOW ORPHANS – his father's paper, the one he wasn't supposed to look at, but Fandral had dared him, and most of the words were too big to understand anyway. A little pain prickles through Thor's chest at the memory. Well, he was a child; it's not his fault; he hadn't understood the gravity of the situation; he only knew that adults kept whispering about it and would stop abruptly whenever he entered the room…
Ding, ding, ding, they're going up to the psych ward.
Odin had looked so tired during the whole ordeal; Thor remembered that. Children from The Asgard Orphanage (the orphanage he funds), kidnapped. Killed. His face old and craggy and his mouth full of sighs and regret. Furious when he found Thor and his friends peering at the forbidden paper, the article he wasn't allowed to read. "This is not a game!" Odin kept shouting, while Thor scowled and muttered his excuses, "This is not something you turn into a dare!" And then Frigga, perched on the edge of his bed, smoothing back his hair, telling him with sad eyes that sometimes bad things happen to people who don't deserve it, but don't worry, because Mama would protect him and nothing like that will ever happen to him –
And Gajra's still saying something.
Ding.
They're here.
All Thor's insides seem to disintegrate. He has to remind himself that he's two – maybe three – times bigger than Laufeyson and thus there's no reason for the panic blossoming in his gut. He should be ashamed of it, really. He's Thor. Thor Odinson. Thor Odinson.
The corridors are all white and symmetrical and they make Thor nauseous.
Gajra stops abruptly and, before Thor has time to collect himself – in fact, before he has time to take a breath – she's shoving him into a room.
There are no cards. It's the first thing Thor notices. There are no cards, no flowers. The place is scathingly, depressingly bare.
A man lays propped up on pillows, pale and somber, the IV trailing down to his wrist like a long, twisting red ribbon. Everything is very still. Thor cannot see his face from his position in the doorway and the stranger does not turn to look at him. Outside lightning flashes, brief and violent.
"Gajra," Laufeyson speaks, and Thor feels an electric shock jolt his entire body; he had not expected his voice to sound like that, soft, so soft, but poised and elegant and almost bored, full of dreary, cultured apathy. "I told you I don't want to talk. Please leave." His voice, his presence, leaves a shadow on the air, like a ghost, something once fine but now faded, barely there, still lingering.
Thor says nothing.
The therapist steps neatly into the room.
"Loki," she retorts gently, "Someone's here to see you."
And she nudges Thor further into the room.
Pushy, Thor thinks. Way, way too pushy.
The news seems to startle the man. He stiffens, and then turns in one languid, tired, fluid motion, his breath hissing through clenched teeth in a way that sounds painful but somehow still composed. And then he's facing Thor.
He's beautiful.
It's the first thing Thor's mind – wild, erratic, thoughtless – blurts out, and it makes him feel crushingly hot and profoundly uncomfortable. He has never thought of a man this way before.
But Loki Laufeyson is beautiful.
It's not the plasticized beauty that the media churns out, but something entirely different, an ethereal fairness. Even beneath the pallor of sickness, a natural luster gleams in his white skin, a paleness and a coldness that whispers of snow and ice and silver moonlight. The contours of his face are delicate, yet sharp, as if sculpted from glass; the arch of his cheekbones graceful, the curve of his chin elegant and small – he's altogether slight, the outline of his waist and torso quite slender beneath his bed sheets. And his hair is dark, blacker than midnight, an inky flow that spills around his neck; and the eyes a vivid, startling, almost disconcerting green, the type that cut right through you, that visits you in both your dreams and nightmares. There's something irrevocably dark and unmistakably haunting about the man before him, a sort of beauty that exists only in the shadows; a hidden rose that blooms only for a solitary midnight. Yes, it's a strange loveliness, striking, and yet somehow dangerous, as though – as though if you were to reach out and touch him – your fingers would come away bleeding – as though you would cut yourself on that knifelike, forbidden brilliance – cold, cold, unattainable beauty, left frozen in dead gardens or abandoned churches or old cemeteries.
Thor cannot speak, arrested by a thousand bizarre and foreign sensations.
"Who are you?" Loki asks; his voice tempered lightly with poison, "Why are you here?"
Why indeed. Thor doesn't know, he really doesn't, and he's beginning to feel humiliated with himself again – another sensation he's not familiar with. He's Thor Odinsonand he's always been quite proud and sure of who he is. He's not like this – and anyway, it's just altogether strange – these first impressions – what's wrong with him…?
Loki clearly thinks there's something wrong with him (which is ironic, Thor thinks – he's the one who tried to kill himself last night, after all). He narrows his jade eyes skeptically.
"Why did you bring him here?" Loki directs at Gajra, accusingly.
The inquiry startles Thor from his befuddled silence.
"She didn't bring me," he blunders forward, "I wanted to come see you. I…found you. After you…I mean…" Thor's voice drifts away, unsure (so unlike him), "I found you and I brought you here."
Does that make any sense?
But Loki must understand. His face closes up, like a statute.
"Out," he hisses, faintly, through his teeth, struggling to push himself up from the mattress. He blanches from the effort, but continues relentlessly, tugging at the IV when his movements rattle its stand, making to pull the needle out of his wrist, "Out – out – out."
Gajra rushes towards him, her mouth very tight, "Loki, calm down – don't do that –"
Thor does not know what he expected, but Laufeyson's words hit him squarely in the chest, like little pebbles drilling through skin and bone and muscle. He does not have to be here. He does not particularly want to be here. And yet, here he is, in this ugly place, this sterile white room, unadorned with flowers or get well cards or anything that might suggest that someone outside this building actually cares about the man now struggling to leave his bed. That his resuscitation is more than just protocol.
Thor remembers a time, years ago, when he was a little boy – his tonsils had been removed, and for the one night he spent in the hospital, he had been showered in mountains of toys for weeks. It has nothing to do with the present situation, but something like guilt and pity rushes into his mouth and he nearly chokes on it.
And he can't bring himself to leave. The man might hurt himself.
"Please, don't get up. You're still too weak –"
Laufeyson swivels acid eyes on him, his voice ragged, "Still too weak?"
Thor doesn't understand why he should be offended. "You lost a lot of blood."
Sweat glitters on the man's brow. He collapses back against his pillows, white and shaking, his black hair skimming his chin as he stares at his hands.
"Get out," he says again, his voice commanding. Where does he get off sounding like that?
"Loki –" Gajra begins in what's probably her most patient tone, but Thor strides forward, cutting her off.
"I want to speak to you."
A soft laugh escapes the man's mouth, a poisonous thing, "What could you possibly want to talk about with me?"
What does Thor want to talk about?
He glances at Gajra, but for once she's silent, still and watchful. Thor clears his throat awkwardly, dragging a hand through his blonde hair, feeling knots and tangles. He had been too distracted this morning to give it much attention. He had practically raced here, and now he's not sure what to say.
Besides, standing this close to the man is somehow distracting.
"I –" And oh God, you did that to yourself; why did you do that? why would you possibly do that? teeters on his lips, but he swallows it back, hot and uncomfortable, knowing he can't mention it, and instead bumbles, "I…paid for your hotel room –" Which he had, but that isn't what Thor meant to say, not at all.
When Laufeyson laughs, it sounds cruel and quiet and bitter, a breathy sound sifting through bloodless lips. He leans his head back against his pillows, opting to stare at the graying ceiling rather than Thor's face, exposing a slender and creamy white neck. Thor wishes he wouldn't do that.
"Charming," he responds drily, "How fortunate am I to have come across such a thoughtful and understanding prince."
A rush of annoyance prickles underneath Thor's skin. How can a suicidal man be so biting – so infuriating? He realizes he said the wrong thing, but he only blurted it out of nerves; Laufeyson must know how awkward this situation is. He's not exactly easing the tension.
But the phantom of yesterday swarms over him, the blood and the ambulance and the limp figure cradled in his own blood, and guilt clots out his irritation.
"I…didn't mean it that way," he starts up defensively, wishing Gajra would say something; she did not quit speaking yesterday; but now she might as well be a effigy, she's so wordless, "I just meant –" I don't want you to worry about it? I don't want you to have to confront the manager about it? I just wanted to tell you? I just wanted an excuse to talk to you? "Listen, I just…I just needed to talk to you."
Laufeyson continues to stare at the ceiling.
"I suppose I ruined what could have been a fabulous night for you," he sneers quietly.
Thor's face reddens in frustration, embarrassment, "Don't pretend you know me, Laufeyson –"
The man turns sharply at the exclamation, hoisting himself up on his elbows, his hair spilling in slippery, night-colored strands all around a porcelain-pale face. He looks thin and ravaged and tortured and livid.
"Oh, but you know me, don't you?" He murmurs, and his voice is faint, faint, a wisp on the air, each word a measured breath, slowly and carefully enunciated, filling Thor with a vague and unexplainable dread, "You know all about Loki Laufeyson," And the stranger's eyes are a fathomless green, ringed in raven lashes, "You read an article in the papers from years ago and now you know everything," Emotion momentarily corrodes the coolness in his voice, the single word scraping raggedly at his throat; he pauses, composes himself, but his face appears dangerous and breakable; a smile stretches taut and false over his mouth, " – Everything you could ever crave to hear about Laufey's bastard son."
Thor cannot speak. Images swirl through his clouded mind, unbidden: the newspaper curled up on the sitting room table, seemingly innocent under a vase of drooping marigolds; the gigantic words printed across the surface, in screaming capitals; MUTILATED BOY DISCOVERED HIDING IN THE CARNAGE OF FELLOW ORPHANS; and Volstagg squinting at the words, trying to puzzle out its meaning, and Sif's little face looking grave and somber; and the blurry photo of a hunched thing surrounded by black-clad officers that was apparently a boy and the boy was apparently their age (well, that's what Fandral said, and he could've been lying); and then Father, towering over them, tall and lined and imposing, looking old, so old, and tired, furious –
His stomach hardens in some indescribable, unpleasant feeling. But it's not his fault. He didn't know. He didn't know and he didn't understand and he was just a little kid.
"Don't worry," Frigga had told him, spreading her hands lovingly over his comforter, while he pretended to not be afraid, "Your father and I would never let anything like that happen to you…"
But he didn't ask to have a better life than Laufeyson.
The tension stirs Gajra from her silence. Her eyes are sympathetic and unafraid and Thor wonders again how she can be so damnably calm.
"Thor has not said one word about Laufey or the kidnapping, Loki," she explains simply.
The statement stains the air. Laufeyson does not even look at her; his gaze burns into Thor's face, and he looks like a haunted relic, cold and beautiful and forgotten.
"I never did," Thor supplies, a little defensively.
Laufeyson's mouth tightens, his voice low and venomous, "But that's why you're here. You think I don't know you? Odinson, the glorious football star. Your face plastered everywhere. I know you as well as you know me. And you're a drunkard – you're spoiled – arrogant. This is a publicity stunt for you; a way to win over crowds; make them love you. I can see the headlines now. 'Odinson, the oh so merciful hero, bestows pity upon – '"
"Loki!" Gajra shouts, but this is all too much for Thor. What's he doing here anyway? He has no desire to be here, trapped in this hateful place, where the white walls crowd in like claustrophobia and the searing flavor of antiseptic numbs his tongue. He has no responsibility to this place, no duty to this man – he owes him nothing, nothing – this man – this pitiable, this pathetic –
He slits his wrists in a hotel bathroom and he has the nerve to ridicule him? Thor Odinson? And after –
Indignation roils in his mind like smoke, obscuring his thoughts; he steps still closer to the man, resisting the urge to grab his collar in anger,
"I just saved your LIFE!"
Lightning blazes against the windowpanes, shocking the entire room in an electric glare. Thunder booms and Thor feels it growl in his chest, in his center, and it's the sound of his fury, unbridled and uncontrolled, a lightless, thoughtless emotion.
But Laufeyson cuts in cleanly, "No one asked you to."
The statement chills his fury into a frostbitten fatigue. He cannot understand, he cannot, cannot. The stranger watches him, his gaze dull and cold and lifeless, like bits of jade kept in dirt. Thor suddenly feels very lost and very tired; he has nothing more to say and he does not want to be here. Why did he come at all?
Gajra tells Loki she will be back in a moment and clasps Thor's elbow, leading him back into the hallway.
"That went well," she says evenly, resting her narrow shoulders against the outside wall, and Thor glares at her.
"There's no reason for the sarcasm; I don't know why I even bothered –"
But the therapist holds up her hand, her expression benign, "No, Thor, I mean it. Did you think it would be easy talking to him?" She raises a pitying brow at his baffled expression, "Loki's rarely agreeable, even when he's not in a vulnerable position. He's a little overwhelmed right now. He…" She pauses for a moment, then plunges on truthfully, "He didn't expect to be alive today. I knew he wouldn't take kindly to seeing you, but it was good for him."
Therapists truly are a breed all their own.
"Why is that?"
Gajra's smile is a warm enigma, "Because now he knows his actions have an impact on other people, even if he won't admit it."
Thor grunts. "He didn't seem to care very much."
"Oh," Gajra shakes his head, waving her hand dismissively, "I'm sure it did. Loki's very good at acting one way when he feels something entirely different. It's how he always breezes through rehab."
Thor's head pulses. Rehab. Suicide. Therapists. He's stumbled into unwelcome territory, a dizzying, convoluted maze of hardships and terrors and bitter disappointments. He wants nothing more than to return to his life of golden light and carefree comforts.
And yet his mouth says, "What will happen to him?"
Gajra purses her lips, as if surprised, studying him a bit before she responds.
"He'll need to go to rehab for a while. And when he gets out…" She shrugs her shoulders, a lackadaisical gesture for such a grave topic, "He'll go on with his life. I'll still be talking to him. We'll try coping mechanisms. See if we can get him to move on. That sort of thing."
"You talk like you've both done this before."
Sadness settles over Gajra like a veil, "More times than I care to admit," she states, and Thor feels a little weight drop even deeper into his gut. So Laufeyson has done this sort of thing before. He can't imagine how things could possibly get any worse.
"I – I am sorry," he retorts clumsily, "I truly am."
The woman touches his shoulder. "I know you are. But now you, like Loki, must learn to let go. You've done your good deed. Now go out and live your life."
Although her words are heavy with meaning, her departure is abrupt: she turns smoothly on her heel and enters the unbearable room, leaving Thor to stand muddled and frustrated in her wake. He knows she's right; knows he should go; knows he wants to go. Badly. And yet he remains there for a few more minutes, even though Gajra closes the door gently as she steps over the threshold. He listens to their muffled voices rising and falling in conversation, and he thinks he can distinguish which one belongs to Laufeyson, a sharp, clear sound, like a silver melody, like a dagger. He feels drained and unlike himself.
Outside, rain pitters softly.
The memory of that voice and green eyes cling to him like a shroud as he exits the building.
LIKE ELEANOR AND ROXANNE, GAJRA IS NO ONE'S POTENTIAL LOVE INTEREST. She's a recurring character, mostly because she serves as a plot device for later chapters, but she's not a major, major character, and she's not going to steal anyone's heart or be housing the Tesserect or anything of the sort.
Since this world is an AU, I need to populate it with surrounding, minor characters to make it feel believable. Even if they're OCs. That's why people like Roxanne and Gajra show up.
Thanks once again for reading!
