Things seem to have settled, a little. Loki has grown used to the mundane normalcy of it all, even though he has had to grow used to staying in the flat whilst Steve and Bucky are at school and Lady Sarah is at her job as a healer.
"I know your family are assholes," begins Bucky, ignoring the startled look from Steve at the supposed curse word and Loki's own at the slander. "But there isn't anyone looking for you at all, is there?"
Loki looks away from the game, chess it is called, similar in style to tafl on Asgard, which Steve and Bucky are teaching him, and they aren't all that bad, even though Steve sometimes tries to bend the rules somehow. He swallows.
"No," says Loki, and fights the urge to look out the window and glare up at the sky again. "If there was they would have come for me. I'd already be gone."
"You sure?" asks Steve, concerned, but moving his pawn forward anyway.
"Positive."
In turn, he moves forward his rook to capture one of Steve's bishops. They're deep in concentration, mostly silent except every so often Steve will groan out of frustration and Bucky will give advice to either side here and there. The sky is orange and red by the time the game ends, a win for Loki, by some miraculous means with his five remaining pieces to Steve's nine. Bucky cheers and says he'll bring him back a treat from the bakery down the road, except he has to leave and get home before the sun sets and it gets dark properly.
It's all very cheerful, and much more the kind of cheer that is to Loki's tastes than was on Asgard, and totally in tune with just about every other day here. Blissful. He almost wishes he could stay here forever.
"Hey," says Steve, once Bucky has left and they're putting bread in the oven to make toast for dinner. "You sure those jerks who—" and he pauses and Loki notices him wince. "You sure they aren't looking for you? If they are you know you gotta say, right?" He raises his hand and runs it through his hair, looking stressed and tense suddenly. Loki takes an anxious step back.
"As I said," and Loki forces his voice not to shake, "I highly doubt they are looking for me. Heimdall, Father — the Allfather — would have found me by now and I would be gone, if they wished it. It is simply, I suspect, that I have not yet earned it, of cour—"
"Damn it, Loki," yells Steve, and this time Loki flinches back so harshly the sharp corner of the counter is suddenly stabbing his spine so Loki flinches again. "Of course, you don't deserve to go back! They were awful to you! Why would you even… why would you even want to go back?"
The kitchen is small, and cramped and a little cluttered. It's dark because the lamp isn't working properly and the only light is the one from the gaslamp in the sitting room through the open kitchen door. The heat coming from the oven feels too dry and hot and Loki isn't listening to anything Steve is saying beyond "damn it, Loki."
Oh, it's been a bit since he last heard that and he hasn't missed it, he's got to say.
Because, what? It's been a little over a fortnight and they're already sick of him? Of course they are, says a voice in his head and he doesn't try to fight it.
I see, he thinks. Perhaps he should apologise and go find some other Midgardians to inconvenience, until Father deems it time for his return. Or would that only be spreading the problem?
Damn it, Loki—
He digs his nails into his palms. Why can't you be more like Thor?
Damn it, Loki—
He leans back into the hard angle of the counter once more, letting the sharp ache ground into him. Why must you be so difficult, all the time?
Damn it, Loki—
He doesn't realise he isn't breathing properly until he smells the bitter scent of burning toast, and Steve's voice begins to reach him, somewhat distant.
"Hey, Loki. Hey, Lokes… It's okay. It's okay. You're fine, just breathe, okay? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you," Steve is saying, slowly, softly, and Loki recognises the effort he makes to keep a little distance and move slowly too. "You're okay, Lokes. It's just me, Steve, and our toast is burning. You're in the kitchen with me. You're safe."
Safe, Loki registers bitterly, nobody is ever, truly, safe.
"I'm going to take your hand now," says Steve, and slowly, Loki allows Steve to take his hand and place it on the other boys chest. " You're going to breathe, with me. Ma and Bucky do this with me all the time when I have asthma attacks and stuff like that. You're fine."
Gradually, after a few still seconds, the buzzing at Loki's ears which he hadn't noticed before leaves, and his surroundings start to melt around him, fading back in. Loki breathes.
He should probably feel embarrassed at such a display of weakness, Allfather will certainly not be proud, but as it stands, suddenly all Loki feels is tired. He just wants to lie on the sofa, face down, and disappear.
"The toast is burning," is what he says, once he finally comes back to himself.
Steve seems to sigh in relief. "Extra flavour, I guess?"
The lights have been turned off for at least an hour now. Lady Sarah and Steve have long gone to bed (there is only one between them), and Loki lies on their beaten, old sofa, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. There's a fraying fleece blanket pulled up over him, thick and soft still, even as worn as it is He's wearing the same, plain Midgardian clothing Steve found for him the second day, which has been in rotation with another two outfits since he's been here.
It's been two weeks since he arrived. Fourteen nights since he first stumbled onto Midgard and into the unlucky sights of Steve Rogers. Seventeen since the dwarves and the damned bet.
Outside, at night time, the city is as bustling as ever somehow, the frenzy encapsulated by the night sky domed over the city. All the sounds seem to blend into each other and it seems to stretch from everywhere.
He sighs.
There's very little hope that this will work, but he holds on anyway.
Slowly, he sits up, taking another breath, and then one more, before he stands and drifts silently, quickly, towards the main door.
He slips the small letter he wrote, almost two weeks ago now, into the pocket of Lady Sarah's good coat. If he had his magic, he'd gift her something better. Transfigure the whole place into a palace from the inside and make sure they'd have more than enough beds to sleep on. He'd summon Lady Eir herself, if he could, to remedy Steve of all that ails him. They have been good to him, even without the knowledge — or at least the belief — that they house the Prince Loki of Asgard.
Maybe he will come back someday, within the century of course, knowing how little time mortals have, and thank them properly.
It's been a mere fortnight and yet Loki is sure he will miss them and their…softness. Aside from when they were trying to aid him, he has not been punished once since he's been here. Not once have they attempted to strike him, or deceived him into some harm for his own good, or so much as raised their voice. Even as he is, even though Loki knows, even though Father and all of Asgard know, he deserves it. He is tricky, deceitful and conniving, and it is cruel and manipulative to take advantage of their ignorance.
He will miss them and their unjust kindness.
That is to say, if he manages to leave at all. Two weeks here must be enough, surely?
Well-used and well maintained, the lock turns easily and with only a soft click. Loki holds his breath and opens the door softly, conscious of how it scrapes against the floorboards, steps through and shuts it just as softly behind him. Okay. He can do this.
He hasn't been in the neighbourhood very long, but he gets the picture that, from the way Steve and his friend Bucky speak, it is not the sort an unaccompanied and unfamiliar child should wander about at night. So he must be quick, and careful.
He wishes he had his magic.
It's several flights of stairs down to the ground, but it doesn't take long. As soon as he makes it out, he shivers. Unconsciously, he twists at the cuffs weighing down his wrists, quickly becoming chilled in the breeze, still very much there. Loki tries not to sigh.
Dark, and shadowy and illuminated, the streets feel quiet where he is, and yet he can hear people active within their homes still, even at this hour, sound tracing down the concrete blocks surrounding him. And perhaps just a little out of sight, a car passing through the streets, and even some people, midnight wanderers, Loki thinks, or those hoping to catch them. There's the faint smell of alcohol and burning herbs and urine permeating through the streets, and Loki steps back, hurriedly, into some other shadow. There's nobody around, though.
All right. He swallows, trying to steel himself. Please.
"Heimdall," he begins, and his voice sounds weak to his own ears. "Heimdall, open the Bifrost."
The wind picks up a little, and a few strands of hair blow into Loki's eyes, the gust whistles in his ears and bounces off the crumbling walls. Loki is acutely aware of how thin the cotton of his shirt is, and the lack of shoes on his feet. He didn't want to take anymore than he already has, the Rogers have very little as it is, after all.
"Heimdall." This is useless. "Open the Bifrost!"
There's no reply, like yesterday, and the day before, and the days before.
"Tell Father I'm sorry. Tell him I'll train harder, and pay more attention in lessons, and I'll try harder to listen, I'll stop running my mouth! I'll clean his armour for a month! A year! I can be good! Please, I— I'll do anything! Just let me come home."
Something cold and sticky from the building next to him drips wetly on his feet and Loki flinches.
"Please."
There's no reply.
Loki shivers once more, lets himself sigh, just once, and goes back inside. New York is loud, but it feels so, so quiet.
"You gotta stop calling folks Ladies and Lords and stuff, Lokes. Like, I know you think you're a prince and all that but people are gonna start thinking you're some sorta ponce." begins Steve at their fifth overly-speculative look. "And that doesn't tend to go down well here, trust me."
They're at the market buying some milk and other things for the week. It's a Sunday afternoon though, so it's busier than Steve would have liked. But the sun is up, so at least it's warm.
Loki stops short, and Steve almost trips over himself at the abruptness of it. "I am a prince." He says quietly, staring fixed on the dirt of the pavement.
"Uh-huh. Sure."
At this, Loki flits his eyes at him sharply. Squints. "You don't believe me."
He shrugs at the boy, trying to tread lightly, tightens his grip on the grocery bag in his hands.
"Well," he says carefully, looking anywhere bit at him because it suddenly feels awkward, "you did show up a bit outta the blue. And, well, you know." He struggles, not knowing how to say it. "And I ain't ever heard of Ass Guard-"
"Asgard." Loki corrects, even though it sounds just the same.
"Yeah, that, and I ain't some geography whizz or anything but none of it's doing you any favours." He's rambling now, sure, and maybe it would be kinder to give Loki his fantasy, but it would be better for everyone in the long run if Steve just said it.
Besides, even if Loki is a prince it doesn't really matter anymore. There's no way he's going back to wherever he was before, even if it was royalty and Steve and his Ma are dirt poor. No way in hell.
Loki is silent now, just thinking. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. And Steve sees Loki, a scared little boy with seemingly no family (maybe mild amnesia?) and aged too fast from being too weary.
"I see."
And he looks like he does see. Looks like his mind is going a mile a minute and Steve can't seem to keep up (but he can damn well try.)
Loki glances at the list in his hand again, scrap of paper with stuff Mom told them to buy, and blinks hard thrice. Clears his throat.
"You alright there?" asks Steve stupidly, after a moment.
"Of course," lies Loki smoothly, not a crack in his voice, "We need to get flour. It's next on the list."
