A/N: I was just going to leave Jess up in Anchorage to go about her life happily and make an appearance when Loki needed his best friend, but this popped into my head and, well, I decided to go with it. I've only actually seen the movie I took this character from ONCE, and like Jess, I didn't pay attention. I was making jewelry, so my attention was divided. However, I'm a sucker for time travel stories and read one with this guy that was never finished, so the idea planted itself and wanted out.
Corps of Discovery
Tho' the road between us stretches many a weary mile / I forgot that you're not with me yet /When I think I see you smile
-George W Ballard, "There's a Long, Long Trail"
The sounds of battle abruptly ended, replaced with eery quiet. All he could do was stare at the German machine gun. Fright coursed through him to the point he was no longer aware of anything passed what his eyes were processing in front of him.
He didn't even feel the first bullet hit him, nor the second. He was unsure when he became aware of the pain that snapped him out of his torpor. His grip tightened on the reins for a moment till another bullet ripped through him and he lost feeling in his arm holding the reins, the force making him jerk backwards, his sword flying out of his other hand. The noises of the machine guns filled his ears as he fell.
The fall took forever.
When he finally hit the ground, blackness overtook. He embraced it to escape the pain, fright, and loneliness that was dying on the battlefield at twenty-seven.
He lingered between the living and death, the passage of time losing meaning. The noises of battle faded out and were replaced by the quiet noise of nature. In the back of his mind, he figured it he was delirious, hence why he heard the patter of rain and the rustle of tree branches. He was sure the wetness on his face were his tears of agony rather rain drops slashing down from the heavens. It wasn't until he pressed his face to the ground did he realize something was wrong.
The ground was hard, frozen, and muddy.
The ground should be dry, warm and dusty.
He took a ragged breath and dared to open his eyes.
He was no longer on the battlefield in rural France.
He sucked in a labored breath (breathing hurt, then again, everything hurt). The bite ice, rotting wood, evergreens, and damp filled his noise.
He was alone, in a forest at the cusp of spring.
If he could, he would have laughed boisterously.
You're was hallucinating yourself to a rather nice forest instead of a bloody battlefield, old chap, he thought as his eyes took in the bare, rain soaked trees, and the large rocks protruding out of mounds of snow. Closing his eyes he listened to the tree branches sway, the rain bounce off the trees, cascade down the large boulders, and plunk on the half frozen mounds of snow. He was positive he would die alone in the strange, peaceful forest till he heard crunching snow— the kind that came from footfalls. Every muscle tensed, sending waves of pain that almost caused him to succumb to the dark again.
"OMG."
Was that some sort of weird German code?
If it was, he must remember it.
OMG. OMG. OMG, he repeated like a litany.
"What?" came a male American voice.
American? Weren't they staying out of this mess?
"There is a body over there," said the first voice.
Female. Also American.
The loud noise of someone moving through the brush sounded off to his left. Part of him wanted to move to hide himself, yet a larger part of him wanted to be found and taken away from the chilly, rain soaked forest he'd dreamed himself into. He opened his eyes as the noise crashed closer and was greeted by an odd sight: a women, if he was taking her soft facial features incorrectly, dressed in scandalous fashion and looking like a drowned animal.
"Oh-my-god. It's Tom Hiddleson."
And with that strange declaration, Captain James Edward Nicholls allowed the dark to take him away from the strange, delirium wrought reverie.
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand / To man's blind indifference to his fellow man / And a whole generation were butchered and damned
-Eric Bogle, "The Green Fields of France"
"What are you talking about?" Clint asked, trying to catch up to Witton.
Since her debacle with magic, Extremis, and a golden apple, Witton moved faster than Clint. He would never admit it out loud, but he knew he was getting old. He was in top physical condition for his age bracket, but he couldn't keep up when Witton (the half-mortal doped up on God Apples and Extremis) set her mind to something. (And ignored the fact she still had two left feet.)
Hiking had been his idea. Now, he was regretting it. Early May wasn't the best month to visit the Last Frontier, but it was what Clint could manage. It'd rained every single, damn day since he'd landed. He had no idea what the mountains Steve had waxed on about looked like as they were always draped in low clouds or rolling fog.
And now he was traipsing after Witton (who went OFF the trail) through some sort of death trap of rain slicked fallen tree branches, dead leaves, and ice.
Lesson of the day: Just because it's a popular tourist trail, doesn't mean it won't be covered with ice and slush in May. It was clear the trail had been somewhat maintained through the winter (meaning people used it and beat a path through the snow), but the melting and refreezing had done a number on trail making it sketchy.
Clint was amazed Witton was still on her feet.
As Clint almost lost his footing, he added another lesson: just because it's sort of nice in Anchorage (meaning it wasn't pouring rain) doesn't mean if you leave the city limits (or just drive ten minutes in any direction) the weather will be the same.
It was freezing in Girdwood. And pouring rain. Or sleeting. Or snowing. Clint wasn't sure what it was doing. He was a popsicle.
"Clint!" Witton wailed. "I'm serious! It's Tom Hiddleston! It has to be!"
"He doesn't exist here," Clint reminded her, finally reaching where Witton had stopped and was bouncing on her heels. Opening his mouth to say comment on her crazy head seeing nonexistent movie stars in Girdwood, Alaska, nothing came out as he spotted the body on the ground.
It was a tall, lanky guy dressed in some sort of period costume. At first glance, Clint thought the guy was Loki, but the longer Clint looked, the more the guy looked less like Loki. Even in his passed out state and with only one side of his face showing, the guy's face was too full of life and too innocent to be mistaken for the rather jaded Loki. His wet hair was blond and curly— if the way it was curling in the damp was any indication. Clint's eyes trailed down the guy's body, which was more filled out than Loki could dream of being. While Loki was strong, he was a wiry kind of guy. As his eyes trailed down the guy, he noticed a hat. Clint picked it up and turned it over in his hands, examining the bullet hole shot through the top. He recognized the insignia on the hat. Shaking his head, he looked back at the guy to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
"Is that blood?" Clint asked, finally noticing the deep red staining the guy's back.
Witton screamed, falling backwards. Clint reached for her, but by the time he turned to get her to her feet, she was scrambling on her hands and knees towards the Loki look-alike, mindless of the mud and ice.
"OMG. OMG," she whispered over and over. "It's not Hiddles."
She frantically began to go through her backpack trying to find something to staunch the blood flow coming from what appeared to be machine gun fire that littered the guy's upper body. Clint's mind flipped over to damage control, and he got the first aid kit out of his own bag, and gently pushed Witton aside and began to tend to the guy.
The guy was riddled with bullet holes, many having gone clear through him. Or he'd been shot in the back. Clint did not want to cut the guy's clothes up, but he needed to stop the bleeding. He watched the guy's fluttering pulse in his neck before deciding he had to flip him over. There was no way a medical chopper would get here in time if Clint didn't do something.
"Witton, breathe. Hold it together. I need you to help me roll him over without moving him too much," Clint said, using the emotionless tone he used while working.
Witton sucked in a deep breath, looked very pale, but helped Clint roll the man onto the clean extra coat Clint had had in his backpack. After he was on his back, Clint began to unbuckle him from his coat. He made mental notes of all the other decorations the man wore on his uniform and had a strange sinking in his chest they weren't dealing with a guy who'd just dressed up in the crazy uniform for fun.
Clint knew his stuff when it came to military uniforms. And, as it happened, he'd been utterly obsessed with World War I as a kid, so he felt comfortable in stating it was a solid fact this kid was an officer (captain) in the British Calvary, circa 1913 or more likely 1914 since he was shot up to high hell and looked as if he'd road head first into machine gun fire. How he managed not to get shot in the head was a miracle.
"Now what?" Witton asked.
"Call Phil."
"What? Why can't I call 911?"
"Call Phil. Use the phone in the inside pocket of my coat. Tell him it's a code four green. Maybe a five yellow. I don't think we've got a code for time traveling. We should."
Witton reached into his pocket while Clint worked on the guy on autopilot and withdrew the emergency satellite phone. Clint didn't pay attention as she dialed the number for Phil, as he was concentrating on trying to stop the guy from bleeding out on him.
Witton managed to keep her cool till she got off the phone. The moment she stopped talking, Clint managed to get to the wound that was gushing the most blood and put pressure on it. This cause the guy to suddenly wake up. He let out a blood curdling scream, then promptly passed out again.
A solid thump from behind told Clint Witton was out for the count as well.
Now don't be afraid / Come and join the parade / For the ultimate in sacrifice / It's an old-fashion story of hope and glory
-Johnny Hates Jazz, "I Don't Want to be a Hero"
Phil Coulson had seen a lot of weird and amazing things in his days. He'd seen Captain America awake from a seventy year ice sleep. He'd witness real life actual gods walk the Earth. Hell, he'd seen the rise and fall of Tony Stark.
A few times.
And yet, this was the most bizarre thing to date.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I am sure," Clint insisted. "Remember? I know my wars. This guy is outfitted for World War I. Those wounds weren't made by anything anyone uses now, but an old school machine gun. I know my wounds. Ain't nothing around today that could have done it. Plus, the bullets they dug out of him, well, the ones still there that didn't rip right through him, they were antiques, only lacking the usual age you see in antiques."
Phil eyed the archer, who rolled his eyes.
"Look at the uniform," Clint said, throwing the bag with the remains of the bloodied military uniform across the hospital bed in the private room at the military hospital in Anchorage where the man had been airlifted twenty-four hours prior. "It's the real thing— or he's one hell of a re-enactor."
Phil eyed the pale, unconscious man in the bed. He was young, so incredibly young. Unlike the man he so closely resembled in some ways, the guy had blond hair that defiantly was an out of control curly mess naturally. His face was innocent as he slept, something Phil knew Loki didn't achieve in that state. The finely carved features of the young man's face were similar to Loki's in that they made him look vaguely aristocratic, yet the man on the bed was missing the regal air Loki was unable to shed no matter how hard he tried.
Someone behind Phil cleared his throat. Phil looked over his shoulder to see Loki standing in the doorway to the room, a nurse hovering over his shoulder looking a combination of baffled and indignant.
"Mr Laufey-Odinson, a pleasure to see you again," Phil greeted, extending his hand for Loki to shake. "Did Director Fury send you on my heels?"
Loki nodded moving to shake Phil's hand while his green eyes were on the bed containing the man who now looked less like Loki in the presence of the man than he had before. Adding to the pair's glaring difference was the fact their coloring was night and day. They also looked at different ends of the age spectrum. Loki was older than some dirt, he didn't look a day over thirty, and yet comparing him to the unconscious solider, Loki looked like an old man.
"He's with you?" a nurse asked unhappily.
Internally Phil cursed the fact SHIELD medical in Anchorage was unable to handle a case like the solider's so they'd had to go to the military hospital. It was better than a public one. Less likely for the Strange Case of Captain Nicholls to become public knowledge.
"Yes, ma'am. He is with us. Thank you for showing him the room," Phil said, giving the nurse a look to leave them be.
Loki scoffed loudly. The nurse looked like she really did not want to know and shut the door quietly to single her exit. Loki bent over at the waist till his noise was inches from the young solider on the hospital bed, pale and sickly in appearance, yet not as pale as Loki in his healthy state.
"This is just too weird," Clint mumbled, collapsing into a chair.
"He is not Hiddleston," Loki declared. "He is another…film character I believe. If you have this film here."
"What film?" Phil asked before Clint could announce they already knew the guy's name and that he was likely from another dimension.
"War Horse," Loki replied.
"It's not a film here. It's a theater production," Phil supplied, frowning.
"Ah," Loki breathed, straightening up. "He resembles Hiddleston very strongly, yet there are discrepancies as there are between Hiddleston and myself. Hiddleston was in a film called War Horse where he played a World War I soldier who had a horse. Why would it not be reality in some other dimension if we all only exist in comic books in another?"
Phil had to agree with that statement. He smirked and asked, "So, what's his name?"
Loki had an incredible memory, yet something told Phil the guy hadn't bothered to remember the character's name.
"Did he not have identification papers or something on him? Don't your warriors carry something to identify them if they fall in battle?"
"ID tag says Nicholls," Clint said, tossing a plastic bag to Loki that contained the aluminum disk that had been tied with a bit of cord around the solider's neck, as well an ID tag he had around his wrist.
Loki deftly snatched the bag out of the air and looked at the stamped disks. "Do you not know what the rest of this means?"
"It's his solider number, regiment and his religion," Phil responded. "And he's not in any records books, nor did he exist as far as we can tell. So we only know his name is James Edward Nicholls, he's a captain, a member of the North Somerset Yeomanry, he's twenty-seven, and was born on March 16, 1887. Oh, and he's six foot two and weights about 175."
"You got that out of his tags?" Loki inquired.
"I'm a military buff," Clint offered. "I also found his papers."
Phil produced the bag with the brand new, yet old fashion ID papers. Loki took the bag from Phil and studied the contents, a look of bafflement on his face.
"It was a shame they had to cut him out of so much of that uniform. I managed to save the coat and his hat is a bit wet and has a hole ripped through it, but I can patch that up," Clint babbled.
Loki hummed absently, handing the bag to Phil.
"You went to Girdwood before coming here, correct?" Phil asked, setting the bag on the bedside table.
"I was charged with figuring out how this mysterious person arrived. Unfortunately, I do not have access to my magic, so I was unable to really tell anything from the site you obtained Captain Nicholls."
"So you didn't see or feel anything?"
Loki shook his head.
"Should we be worried?"
"No."
"How are we to get him back?"
"Hiddleston's character died," Loki stated flatly. "Or at least that was what I assumed happened when the horse showed up without him."
"You didn't watch the whole movie, did you?"
Everyone turned to see Jessica Witton in the doorway, a rather large bandage on the side of her head.
Loki's whole demeanor changed at seeing Jessica harmed. He closed the distance between them and put his hand on her head, right near the bandage.
"What happened?"
"Oh, you know: the fact I've got two left feet. I fell. Actually, okay, I fainted due to the fact Not Tom was covered in blood and it finally registered in my head he was bleeding and it was gross."
Jessica made a face, closing her eyes.
"I've got stitches. No concussion. Just fainted and whacked my head in true Jess fashion. Lack of control of my limbs while awake…think of what happen if I blacked out on my feet," she laughed uncomfortably.
Loki frowned. "You should be healed by now."
"It itches like hell, so I more than likely am."
Loki ripped the bandage off, muttering under his breath.
"See, I'm fine," Jess said batting Loki away from her. Phil caught a glimpse of healed forehead around the area the dissolvable stitches had yesterday. "So, how's the war dude?"
"What was Hiddleston's character's name in War Horse?" Loki demanded, stepping back from Jess.
"Er…Cumberbatch was in that movie."
Loki sighed deeply.
"What was his name?"
"I don't remember. He was in the movie for like fifteen minutes and they all has similar sounding names. All I remembered was Cumberbatch had a mustache and was higher ranked than HIddleston's character."
A sheepish expression painted her face as she took the seat next to the bed. Loki sighed deeply. Jess stared at the guy on the bed.
"He looks different."
"Of course. He's clean," Clint attempted to joke.
"No. From what I remember. But, then again, I watched that movie before I was really aware of who Hiddles was. I never saw it again, as it was kind of…well, boring. And then it made me cry."
"It was so boring it made you cry?" Clint asked, fiddling with his phone.
"No. It was so touching it made me cry. I like paid attention at the start, then the fifteen minutes Cumberbatch was onscreen, then got bored, then at the end I cried my eyes out," Jessica reported.
Loki frowned.
"Ah! Hah!" Clint waved his cell phone around. "I looked up War Horse characters. And Cumberbatch played one of the characters named Captain Charles Stewart. There was indeed a James Nicholls in this play, but he was a LT."
Clint scowled.
"They made the movie here and changed his rank? I thought they didn't make any Hiddleston movies because he's not here," Jess said, frowning. "Wait, I swear to god they both had the same first name in the movie, hence my total confusion."
Clint shook his head. "I dunno. Says Charles Stewart and per Wiki, Cumberbatch played him on stage. He was in the stage production in London. It's only a play here."
"Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense. I mean, almost everything else is the same. It was a Broadway play before it was a movie and a book before it was a play," Jessica said, looking back at the guy. "He's prettier in person, damn it. What the hell gives? Steve is prettier in person! This dude is prettier in person! The only person who isn't prettier is Thor! He looks the same!"
Loki snickered while Clint looked affronted.
"I am not pretty."
"What?" Jessica asked, looking at him. "Of course you're pretty. Everyone is pretty!"
"I think she hit her head a little harder than we first thought," Clint grumped, crossing his arms. "If any of you ever tell anyone she thinks I'm pretty, I'm putting an arrow through your eyes."
Phil rolled his eyes while Loki held up his hands in defeat while wearing a smirk.
Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today / Someone send a runner through the weather that I'm under for the feeling that I lost today
-The National, "England"
The first thing Jim was aware of when the darkness receded was a strange noise.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
As he listened to the noise and became more alert, he realized the noise was in time with his beating heart. His eyes slowly opened, but quickly closed them at the influx of bright, white light.
"Come on, you can do this," said a soft, gentle voice to his right. "You're almost there."
Where there was, Jim wasn't sure, but he attempted to open his eyes again. He couldn't move easily, but managed to turn his gaze to the right to see who'd spoken. He was alarmed to find a woman with bright violet hair smiling at him. He regarded her for a moment, feeling his distress grow the longer he looked at her. She looked vaguely familiar, like he'd seen her face somewhere, but she also looked rather unfamiliar.
"It's okay," she assured, biting her lower lip. She looked a bit unsure, but then made up her mind. She put raised her hand slowly and placed it on his forearm, which rested above the white sheets. "I know it's scary to wake up in a strange place and not know a soul. Been there, done that."
Jim stared at her, looking passed the strange hair and into her odd eyes. They were green color he'd never seen before and that only made his panic rise.
"Don't try to talk— uh, you're tubed. I bet they'll be taking it out soon, since you're awake and you're breathing on your own."
Tubed?
"The drugs likely are keeping you from being fully aware. Now, the nurse told me if you woke up, to call her, so I'll do that. Oh, and if you need her, I'll put the button in your hand, okay?"
He blinked.
That seemed to be a good enough answer for the woman, as she clicked something, then gently unclenched his hand from the sheets (when had he done that) and put something hard and slim into his hand.
"Hit any button on it and someone ought to show up in no time."
"Ah, he's awake! Good!" cried another voice.
American. They were both Americans.
"See, told you," the woman said, backing up.
How'd he wound up in an American hospital was a mystery…though, they could be American volunteers through the Red Cross. The Red Cross had women in their ranks and wasn't going to hurt him. Nor were Americans, even if they weren't with the Red Cross. They weren't the enemy, they were just…minding their own business on the other side of the world. Politics and all that footle.
He told himself all this to ease the growing agitation in his chest. He recognized next to nothing of his surroundings. Everything looked…alien. Americans, while different, were not THAT dissimilar. If Americans were this much more…advanced and alien than the rest of the world, wouldn't they be the ones making a bid for domination?
And why was there a tube down this throat? Now that he knew about it, he could feel it and he felt like he was choking.
How did they get a tube down this throat? What sort of fresh hell was this?
"Calm down, honey," the nurse…or at least he thought she was a nurse. She was wearing very barmy clothing. Was she wearing trousers? And what was that pattern supposed to be? He could see she had some sort of military rank, which calmed him and scared him at the same time. He couldn't figure out what her rank exactly was, as she wasn't wearing anything familiar— and wait, since when did women serve in the military? And did that tag say U.S. Air Force?
"I think he's realizing he's woken up in the twilight zone," the other woman offered, backing up further as the nurse nodded and grabbed some sort of tube that was connected to his arm. She used a needle of some sort and injected liquid into the tube.
"He should calm down now," Solider Nurse said.
"He'll zonk out?"
"No. I'd like the doctor to take the tube out," the nurse said. "I will be back. Try not to upset him."
"Who? Moi?"
Solider Nurse gave Purple Hair a look and quickly exited the room.
"Okay, so you were kind of dying when I found you in the woods. You're in America, but not any America you're familiar with, which judging by your eyes you've figured out. You're in Anchorage, Alaska," the woman explained, carefully looking at him.
The longer she looked at him, the more bizarre things he discovered. She had orange tinted skin and quite a few bobbles in her ears. And she was wearing really obscene clothing. She wore no trousers like the nurse, but just what appeared to be hose and a tiny bit of strange fabric that covered her…lower…
And Anchorage, Alaska? Where was that? America, clearly, but where? He didn't know all the states of the union, but Alaska didn't sound familiar at all.
"I'm Jess. Or Jessica. Loki calls me Jessica. Clint always calls me Witton. Phil usually calls me Ms Witton. Anyways, most people just call me Jess."
Jim blinked, questions swimming in his mind that he hoped his eyes were asking.
A warm hand lightly fell on his arm.
"You were shot up by machine gun fire. Do you remember that?" Jim nodded, as tragically, he did remember that. While scary and unpleasant, that was the last moment of his life that made sense. "I'm assuming it was from the Germans." Jim nodded again, feeling a little light headed suddenly. "Why are they always the bad guys? Or the Russians. Though, recently, the British have been playing the bad guys for some reason."
Jim felt his eyes go wide.
"I don't mean in reality. Your country is still friends with us and…well, I don't know. Things have changed a lot. And not just because you're in a parallel universe."
Jim desperately wished he could speak, but he realized quite quickly his brain was a jumbled mess and he had no idea what he'd say if he could speak.
All is ready, so just hold steady / We'll soon be going to the pier / No more waiting or hesitating / The time to sail is here
-Irving Berlin, "We're On Our Way to France"
"He's convinced he's hallucinating," Witton said flatly a few days after Captain James Edward Nicholls had blinked his baby blues open to greet the world.
"An elaborate hallucination he's dreamed up," Clint grumbled, flicking his finger over the screen of his Stark Pad. "Even after you dyed your hair a normal shade just for him."
Clint had noticed how freaked Nicholls was each time he caught a glimpse of Witton's purple hair. Whatever drugs he was on kept him from a full out panic, but his eyes went large each time he noticed Witton had purple hair and he looked uncomfortable.
Witton scowled. "I did not do this for him. I wanted to change my hair. It's what I do."
Clint raised an eyebrow, raking his eyes over her now almost normal looking dark hair. It was dark brown, but when the sun hit it, there were hints at its former purple glory.
"Tell yourself that, Witton," Clint said, looking back at the Stark Pad. He was attempting to learn all he could about the Edwardian period. So far, all he'd done was watch Downtown Abbey and read the history of England during that period of time on Wikipedia. "You can tell me, Witton."
"Tell you what?"
Clint glanced up to find her looking honestly confused. "Or maybe you might want to just admit you got a thing for World War I in there."
Jessica looked affronted. "I do not have a thing for him! He's traumatized."
"So? You think he's pretty."
"I think you're pretty."
"No, no you don't," Clint said, looking back at the Stark Pad. He called up the book he'd downloaded called All Quiet on the Western Front. He had a vague notion it was read by kids in high school. He sure as hell didn't read it, but then again, he hardly went to school. "You can't have Steve because Loki staked a claim on the guy within five-seconds of meeting him, so why not settled for another blue-eyed, pretty blond boy?"
Witton made a noise, crossing her legs and arms tightly as if to protect herself from Clint's observations.
"I even think he's kind of pretty," Clint went on. "And who else is gonna look out for him? He sure isn't worth SHEILD's time. He's not threatening to take over the world, he's not an all powerful alien, nor is he even a highly trained solider. He's a guy from the calvary in a period of time when his training was going out of style. So, where else is Jim Boy going to go if not with you?"
Clint looked up to find Witton was brick red.
"And you gotta remember, he's shell shocked. Likely in more ways than one," Clint reminded her. "So, it was rather kind of you to tone down your hair to get him to like you more."
Witton threw a magazine at Clint and stomped out of the waiting room. He listened to her go down the hall towards Nicholls' room. He smirked to himself.
How could you send us so far away from home / When you know damn well that this is wrong
-Muse, "Soldier's Poem"
Jim wasn't sure why he'd gone along with this plan of action other than he was tired of being in that odd…hospital. He'd done reconnoiter every waking moment and couldn't find anything that hinted at a German conspiracy or an easy way out that didn't require the aid of the strange party he found himself a member of.
Jim was hale and hearty after a month of recovery. He was almost giddy with relief when the doctors told him he was able to go home. Most men wounded on the front spent months recovery and here Jim was walking and ambling about after a few weeks and released after a month. Yes, he tried easily still, occasionally his wounds ached, and sometimes his foot didn't want to work right, but for the most part he was hearty. (He was assured with some physical therapy his foot would be fine and he ought not to worry.)
He wanted out of hospital and wasn't an idiot, so he'd smiled, laughed, and had spoken heartily to the uniformed officer who'd come to assess his state of mind.
Jim was positive his upbeat behavior was the reason he'd been released this morning and was now standing outside a very green building with a shockingly aubergine door after a harrowing ride in an auto from the military hospital.
"So, this is my house."
"Jessica."
"What?"
"I'm sure he knows this is your dwelling."
Jim eyed the other man accompanying him, who called himself Loki Laufey-Odinson. Jim had heard on more than one occasion people remarked the two looked like relations, but Jim was unable to see it. What he knew of Laufey-Odinson was he was not of this world, yet was from this reality. Jim's mind had yet to fully wrap around the terms they used here, but he understood he was a nonnative even if he was from Earth because this was not his Earth. They had no clue how to return him to his own Earth or his own time.
Jim was sure he'd been rattled off his onion by the fall off his horse.
His heart ached at the thought of what became of Joey. No one gave him a proper answer on the fate of the horse he had promised to return to young Albert. Jim got the feeling everyone around him knew, just didn't want to tell him.
"Are we going to stand outside all morning?" Laufey-Odinson drawled, looking at his watch in impatience.
It was like no watch Jim had seen before. Instead of residing in his pocket, it was strapped to his wrist with a black leather band. The face of the watch was large, circular and had about a million different little faces and hands within the larger one.
"Yes, Lo, we are. Just standing here in the driveway for all the neighbors to see!"
"Jessica, take the poor man into the house before he breaks down."
"Oh, bloody hell," the woman muttered, then with strength a woman should not have, dragged Jim into the house. Jim was in too much shock over her strength to put up a fuss or be embarrass to be hauled passed the aubergine door, which had been opened at some point by Laufey-Odinson.
"Here, talk to Steve."
Ms Witton's hand left his arm and she whirled out of the room. He gazed around the very yellow room before spotting a handsome gentlemen seated on the sofa. His hair was brushed out of his face in a similar fashion to how Jim had chosen to wear his hair. (Ms Witton had insisted he needed to update his hair in order to not look like a time traveler, which he had protested as he'd only recently finally gotten his hair to stay in the fashionable style without it curling all over the place out of control.)
"Er, hello," the man said, standing up and displaying he was plainly dressed.
And dreadfully American— more so than anyone Jim had met while in hospital. He was the spitting image of what Jim had always pictured when he imagined Americans.
"It's nice to finally meet you Captain Nicholls. You did a great honor for your country. Steve Rogers."
Another solider, someone who had seen fighting, who'd been on the battle fields. It was clear in his eyes as he extended his hand.
"Good morning. You may call me Jim, Mr Rogers," Jim greeted, trying to keep a mockery of his former self in his tone. He shook the hand and was pleased the man had a solid handshake— proof of good character.
"You can just call me Steve. Oh, and sorry about those two," the man apologized, dropping Jim's hand and motioning Jim ought to take a seat. "While Loki knows what it is like to be a fictional character, he's more adaptable to situations than most."
"Pardon?" Jim asked, eyeing the other man.
Rogers smiled softly and adjusted one of the wing backs so it was facing Jim. "It's a lot to adjust to— being here, in this time."
"You're from a different…dimension as well?"
Was everyone in this rag-tag group a foreigner to the planet?
Rogers laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "No. I'm from this Earth. Just not this time. I am about ninety years old, but I'm not a demigod like Loki."
"Demigod?"
Rogers made a face like he maybe ought not to have said that. "Well, yeah. Loki, Norse God of Mischief?"
"I've heard of him," Jim murmured, head swimming. While he knew Loki was…different and not exactly human, he hadn't realized he was the Loki of Norse mythology. Jim had thought Laufey-Odinson's parents had a horrid sense of humor. "Do other gods exist? Like the Roman and Greek ones?"
"Uh, not sure. The only ones we know are the Asgardians," Steve said, looking out of his depth. "Thor's Loki's brother…there's Frigga, and Odin. Uh…an quite a few others. I don't know who you've heard of."
"That's about all," Jim lied. He'd only really ever heard of Thor and Loki in passing whilst at school.
"Well, yeah, uh…I was a soldier during World War II."
Jim nodded, having read a brief historical review of Earth since his time. There had been the Great War, later World War I, and World War II— both spanning many countries and fighting taking place all over the world. There'd been something called a Cold War that didn't involve traditional warfare, but a sort Jim was unable to figure out. There always seemed to be war on somewhere.
"I was on an airplane that was going drop a bomb on New York. I couldn't let it happen, so I crashed it into a glacier, fully expecting to die."
"And yet, you did not, and appear young and virile," Jim observed.
Rogers chuckled, rubbing his neck again. "Yeah, uh, you could say that. I fell asleep."
"Pardon?"
"Well, I was injected with this serum that, uh, made me look like this." Rogers gestured to himself. "And I guess it helped keep me alive and in statis while I was…well, on ice. I was buried under the glacier, but those things move, so about a year ago, they unearthed the plane I was in and found me— fast asleep in the pilot's chair."
Jim stared wide eye at the man.
"What sort of world is this?" he whispered.
"Jess told me you think you still think you're in some sort…well, you don't think this is all real," Rogers said quietly.
Jim eyed the man warily, but said nothing. He did in fact think he was in some sort of nightmare. Jim hoped he was waiting to wake up in hospital or convalesce in England in 1914 soon. He had heard wild things were seen that weren't real when one was administered opium or morphine. He had hoped his weeks here on this Earth were just that: a hallucination.
He was fearing it was not so. This was too detailed to be anything other than real.
"You're not dreaming, Jim," Rogers quietly said. "I wanted it to be a dream as well. I wanted to go back to where I came from and finish what I started. I wanted to finish a fight that'd been over for seventy plus years."
Jim met the other's blue eyes with his own. There was something about the other man that forced Jim to be at ease, to feel comfortable. Since he'd awoken, he'd not trusted anyone. The man across from him was shining like the sunlight and Jim desperately wanted for the first time to trust and really understand his situation.
"How do you live being out of your own time?"
A small smile appeared on Rogers' face. "I found something to believe in."
The other man's eyes drifted over Jim's shoulder and his face lit up. Jim turned around to find Laufey-Odinson in the doorway, looking put out.
"Jessica is cooking. Please get in there and cease this dangerous activity."
"What?" Rogers asked, getting to his feet. "Why can't you stop her?"
Loki made an outraged face and stormed out of the room. Steve turned back to Jim. "Sorry. Uh, she might burn down the house."
"Go on," Jim encouraged. "I shall be fine on my own. I don't plan on moving."
"Oh, do you want me to show you to your room?" Rogers asked, watching Jim carefully. "Are you tried? Do you need to lie down?"
Jim smiled softly. "No, I believe I will remain here for a tick."
Rogers stared at him for a long beat, before hurrying off as there was a loud crash and scream somewhere in the back of the house. Jim slumped a little in his seat before taking a good look around the oddly bright room. His eyes fell on family portraits. They were all clearly Ms Witton's family. Jim felt a stab of jealousy at the sight of those portraits. His family did not exist here, as they were works of fiction that hadn't even merited being written about. Jamie was fictional, Joey was fabricated— hell, the entire world Jim knew wasn't fact but a fabrication of some man's imagination.
He was out of his own time and well as his own reality.
He had nothing.
Lost in summer, morning, winter, travel very far / Lost in losing circumstances, that's just where you are
-Yes, "Yours is No Disgrace"
"So, how is he?"
"I don't know. He's more communicative than I was when I first woke up," Steve said. "I just wish I could have been here sooner."
"You had a mission," Loki reminded him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Do not fret. I'm sure Jessica made sure he's spooked and damaged enough."
"I did not," the woman in question protested.
"Darling, you unload spiels of information on him each time you speak to him," Loki said, giving Jess a look of chiding.
Jess stuck out her tongue.
"I think I saved the salmon," Steve replied. "But, I don't know what you did the corn."
"She blew it up in the microwave," Loki drawled.
Jess huffed.
"I can cook," she insisted.
"You can hardly open a can of tuna," Loki pointed out.
Jess looked indignant and stomped over to the pantry, yanked the door open, and pulled out a can of tuna. Within a minute, it was open and under Loki's noise. Steve watched in amusement as Loki glared at Jess, honestly looking like an iriate cat.
"Here, kitty, kitty," Jess said in a sugar-sweet voice.
"I resent that."
"You love tuna from the can," Jess giggled. She put it in Loki's hand and skipped out of the kitchen, calling for Jim.
Steve winced, hoping the tired, young officer had taken a nap in the time it took Steve to save lunch.
"I doubt he fell asleep," Loki quietly said, opening a cabinet and taking out a plastic container to store the opened can of tuna within. "He's wound up too tightly to rest."
"Did the therapist really let him go?"
Loki rolled his eyes. "He charmed the pants off the officer."
"He did?"
Loki gave him another look. "He's extremely full of magnetism when he so wishes. I've felt he is actually a rather charming character under the hard shell he erected upon finding out his fortune."
"Why do you think he's here?"
Loki regarded Steve for a very long moment before looking in the direction of the living room, where Jess's cheery voice was attempting to ply Jim with tea.
"I can make tea," she insisted eagerly. "I've got a tea kettle and everything. It's not the awesome tornado siren one I had before, but it boils a mean pot of water. Silently. Without loud whistles. Clint was kind of sad, as I guess Loki told him about my tea kettle and his total hate for it."
"I'm not sure, but there is something off putting still lingering around him," Loki said as Jess went on babbling about her old tea kettle. "We'll have to introduce him to Thor for me to be sure of my theory."
Steve stared at Loki for a beat before asking, "Is this like when Thor thought Jess felt like his hammer?"
"No. I doubt James is imbued with magic, but I am unable to sense magic at the moment. Thor, even if he's a bumbling fool, can."
We will run and scream / You will dance with me / We'll fulfill our dreams and we'll be free / We will be who we are and they'll heal our scars
-Mumford & Sons with Birdy, "Learn Me Right"
"You are alive."
Jim became aware he was standing in a field— one that looked much like the one he charged across oh so long ago, heading head first into the breach and thinking they'd gotten the best of the Jerries— till he was scared out of his wits at the sight of the machine guns in the woods.
"What is this?" Jim asked, turning around to look at the speaker. He stumbled a few steps backwards. "Joey?"
The horse nodded, taking a few slow steps forward with his head bowed.
"Oh, Joey," Jim sighed, rushing forward to pet the horse. He stroked the white cross on his head for a moment. "What sort of dream is this?"
"One where I am able to speak to you," the horse said.
Jim thought for a moment, then laughed. "Oh, of course. What else would it be?"
"I wanted to make sure it worked," the horse said, lifting his head to look at Jim. Not for the first time, Jim felt Joey was looking through him and into his heart. "You are a good man. I was unable to let you die, so I willed you elsewhere."
Jim dropped his hands from the horse and blankly stared. Joey pawed the ground with his hoof, looking much like a scolded child.
"You willed me…you willed me to…"
Jim could not put into words his current situation.
"I willed you to live," Joey insisted, still pawing the ground and looking chastised.
Jim used his finger to lift the head up and looked into those brown eyes that showed such intelligence. Jim had assumed that Joey was simply a brilliant specimen of a horse, despite Albert's teary insistence Joey wouldn't do well in the calvary. After working with the horse before setting off for France, Jim fully understood the boy's attachment to the creature and why he'd do almost anything to keep him. Jim was loath to be parted from Joey upon completion of the war.
"Did you survive?" Jim inquired.
"Of course," Joey drawled in a familiar manner.
Jim cocked his head to the side, wondering why that drawl was so known, even if it wasn't in a British accent.
"You lack a British accent," Jim mused. "Why is that?"
"I am not British," the horse replied. "I hale from Asgard, though I've not been there since I was first born."
Jim dumbly stared at the horse, letting go of his stout. "Asgard?"
"You've heard of it?"
"That's…that's…where Laufey-Odinson hales," Jim realized, remembering finding a news story from almost a year prior that mentioned how Loki of Asgard tried to take the world. He found it hard to imagine Laufey-Odinson doing this, but how many people were alien and named Loki?
Clearly, Loki had had a change of heart (likely due to Rogers).
(Another reminded how much things had changed.)
"Laufey-Odinson?" Joey asked, sounding curious. "Does Loki happen to be his first name?"
"Yes."
"You've met Father?" the horse cried happily, jumping up a little.
"He's your father?" Jim asked, feeling confused and a little scared.
"Well, I guess he's my mother technically," Joey said. "Well, he was at one time."
"What has my life become?" Jim faintly asked, feeling baffled and letting his legs give out. He fell to the ground, landing with a thump on the dry grass, a cloud of dust raising around him. Once the dust settled, Joey nudged Jim with his nose till he looked up and met the insistent gaze of the strange horse.
"I'm sorry. I do not know where I willed you to live," Joey apologized. "My life story is long and complicated. The life I am leading right now is a good one, thank gods. Well, it was till I met the Germans. Now it is hard. I do not like them."
The horse shook his head and stomped the ground with his hooves to show his displeasure.
"Both I and Topthorn are well enough. Worked hard, but we are alive and together," Joey assured. He nudged Jim again with his nose. "Do not feel sad. I am very sorry I've done this to you, but I felt the life draining from you. Then you fell off and I was unaware where you'd gone. What happened after you fell?"
"I…I don't know," Jim said, finally reaching up and running his hand down Joey's snout gently. "I heard the noises of battle, then noises of nature. I'm not sure how much time passed when realized I was in a much colder, frozen smelling forest. Then I heard American voices and everything went black."
"I sent you to America," Joey said, sounding awed. "You shall be safe there."
"It's not an America any of our time know, Joey," Jim murmured. "It is in the future and another reality. I am a fictional character. Not even a familiar one, as in the reality I find myself within, I'm not even me."
Jim wasn't sure the horse would understand, but Joey cocked his head to the side a little and said, "Oh. Oops."
"Oops?"
"I didn't mean to send you to a mirror world. I shouldn't have been able to," Joey said, the frown evident in his tone.
"How are you talking to me? You're mouth isn't moving," Jim realized.
"I speak through minds. I cannot speak like you do, as I lack the vocal control."
"Oh."
"I am unable to travel through the passageways between realities or realms. Father and my mirror sister are able to do this," Joey explained. "She's…I don't know. She told me I was supposed to be an eight legged horse, not one that is simply reborn over and over on Midgard."
"Pardon?"
Joey shook his head, pacing away from Jim. "It is my father's punishment for doing as he did to cause my birth. In the world Hel is from, she said it happened just the same, only my mirror has got eight legs and lives on Asgard as the king's steed."
Joey pawed at the ground, sending dust everywhere.
"In reality, the All-Father cast me out, sending me to Midgard to live my life as a horse. See horse."
"Yes, I see that."
"Each time I die, I'm reborn. I am currently Joey. I retain my memories each reincarnation, so occasionally Father finds me. I haven't seen him the last few cycles, though."
Jim stared at the horse, who was prancing back and forth as if he were pacing in agitation.
"I am not familiar with Norse myths," Jim admitted.
"No matter. I don't understand, though, how I willed you to another reality," Joey said, sounding frustrated. "I am not magical. Father is magical, but I am a horse. I am smarter than average, sometimes more stubborn than average, and have a strong will. If I will things, they sometimes happen."
"You willed me to live?"
"Of course, Jim, you're kind and treated me well. The world needs more people like yourself."
JIm nodded, taking the sentiment to heart. "Besides willing me to live, what did you do?"
"That was all I did. I willed you to live while you were still on my back. Then you fell off. I was so scared. Those…what were they?"
"Machine guns," Jim said, shuddering at the memory.
"Aye. I dislike them," Joey said, huffing through his nose in distaste. "You should have gone to a hospital tent, or somewhere safe. Not a mirror world."
"I'm safe," Jim conceded.
Joey stopped pacing and faced Jim. He approached slowly and nudged Jim in the side of the head. "You feel guilty you have lived and the others were left to perish or be captured."
Jim put a grim smile on his face. "That's war, old man."
"Aye. War," Joey allowed. "Most horses do not understand war, but I've seen enough I can't say I understand fully, but it seems to be the way many solve problems."
Jim sighed. "Quite right. Politics never solves anything so let's send innocent young men out to shoot one another."
"Jim, don't be that way."
Jim sighed again, putting his face into his hands. "What are you doing? What are the Germans doing with you and Tophorn?"
"I drag things. Like Albert trained me," Joey announced, sounding proud of himself. "With Topthorn."
Jim smiled.
"I'm glad you two are together," Jim said, running his hand down Joey's snout.
"Me too."
"How, if I am on a mirror world, are you in this dream with me? Is it mine or yours?"
"I heard some people speaking after the battle concluded," Joey admitted. "Jamie was unable to find you. I willed myself to find you."
Jim stared. "Jamie lived?"
"Aye. He's gone now, though, Jim. I don't know what the Germans did with him, but they allowed him to go over the dead bodies and he didn't find you. I believe it distressed him greatly, but he refused to show it."
Jim nodded.
"For the bad guys, they are somewhat kind. Well, sometimes," Joey said, his eyes going dark at a memory of something. "I've been willing for a fortnight to be sure you're safe."
"How come you didn't will yourself to stay with Albert?"
Joey moved his head out from under Jim's hand. He stood tall and firm before Jim and said, "You needed me. I might not have magical powers, but I've been around enough to understand when I am needed. You had it written all over you when you and that loud man came looking for a horse. You needed a good horse, a strong horse. That is me."
Jim smiled, fully for the first time in a long time. "Oh, you are such a good boy."
Jim put his hands on either side of Joey's had and pressed his face into the snout, breathing in the familiar scent of Joey.
"Are you happy, Jim?"
"I will be. It was a shock to wake up in the future and on a world I don't exist, but now I know that it was a gift, I will treasure it and try to make the best of it," Jim promised.
Joey made a noise of agreement. "Good. I believe our time draws to a close. You are waking and I must put my mind into what I am doing. This is goodbye, Jim."
"Thank you, Joey."
"You are greatly welcome. Do not forget me."
"I do not believe I could."
Old remembrances are thronging thro' my memory / Till it seems the world is full of dreams
-George W Ballard, "There's a Long, Long Trail"