January 7, 2023
It is barely eight o'clock, though you have been awake for some time. Erik was particularly restless and up repeatedly throughout the night. He finally settled down shortly after three. You tried to go back to sleep, but ended up just staring at the ceiling for several hours. You got up and dressed before sunrise. You needed the distraction. And so, once you confirmed that Erik was indeed resting soundly, you headed to the garage to work.
At some point before your arrival, Erik installed a speaker system and suspended it from the ceiling in the garage. It is connected to a stereo with a CD player, which he listened to while he toiled away in the study above. Though it has only been about six month since his official diagnosis, Erik no longer ventures up to his study. He still manages to walk. Although his balance is so poor that he struggles to do so without falling. He cannot climb stairs, however. And he cannot concentrate on any anything for more than a few minutes at a time. The study is exactly as he left it...papers strewn about, books and journals arranged in random stacks. It pleases you, although you know not why...that Erik always worked best while mired in chaos, that he did not crave order or perfection or control.
You continue to play the stereo whenever you work in the garage. The lyrics of Earth's contemporary music, much like the poetry of its English Renaissance, focus on the trials of love and mortality. Although Midgardians would probably claim there to be a gaping chasm of difference between them in style, to you the two are practically interchangeable. Erik's taste in music is somewhat eclectic. You find some songs more agreeable than others, of course. Though you mostly play it because you consider it preferable to silence.
Between the stereo and the hum of the lathe, your ears are pleasantly occupied. But you still detect the rumble of the approaching motorcycle.
Steve always greets you with a handshake, a gesture that you consider both awkward and strange. His is a firm, two-handed grip, followed by a gentle slug on the shoulder. Although you are confident that Steve is probably genuine, or at least he believes himself to be, there is something about his behavior that feels phony and rehearsed. He does not bother to call ahead. He simply shows up, about once a month, usually on a Saturday or Sunday. Although he has never arrived quite this early before.
You watch him park his bike at the entrance to the garage. You turn off the lathe you are using and remove your protective face mask.
"It's more than a feeling," Steve announces proudly, after taking off his helmet.
You regard his statement with a frown. You reach for the remote that controls the stereo and use it to lower the volume.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The song," Steve explains, dismounting his bike. "I uh...I've been trying to research all the music I missed in the last seventy years or so. A buddy of mine played this one for me. The band is the name of a city."
You set the remote down on the side of your bench and slowly approach him.
"Boston," you supply...which you know only because Erik enjoyed discussing his music as much as he enjoyed listening to it.
Steve bends down and sets his helmet on the ground next to his bike. He takes a few steps forward, until you are less than a meter apart. You brace yourself for what is coming. He grabs your hand and pumps it up and down, enthusiastically. You do your best to respond appropriately. He smiles at you, and you force yourself to smile back. You know that he means you no harm. Yet you are still relieved when he lets go.
"Where's the doctor?" he asks.
You bob your head towards the direction of the house.
"Asleep."
Steve gestures at his bike.
"I noticed I was experiencing a little pull when I took off this morning."
"Pull?"
"Like a jerking motion."
You sigh. While motorcycles are fairly simple contraptions, and repairing them no great task, they are hardly your area of expertise.
"You're probably too heavy on the throttle," you offer, halfheartedly.
"I don't think that's it."
"I suppose it could be the clutch," you suggest.
"You checked the clutch a few months ago and said it was fine."
"So, I did," you concur.
"Could it be the chain?"
"Possibly, if it's too loose...or the sprockets could be worn out."
He sounds doubtful of your assessment.
"Maybe."
You know not what purpose it serves, this little exercise. You are convinced that Steve does not trust you, although he would be loath to admit it. He has a unique energy, at least compared to the other men of his realm. While he is friendly, he is noticeably guarded. There is a darker portion of himself that he is careful to keep concealed...either for his own benefit or the benefit of others. He lost everyone, you realize. Not once, but twice. You have some idea of what that sort of experience might do to a person. Even so...you cannot imagine that his need for companionship is dire enough that he would be willing to seek your company in order to fulfill it. You have no idea what motivates him to continue interacting with you at all.
You put your hands on your hips and stare the motorcycle.
"Are we going to keep pretending that you're here because you actually need my help to fix that thing, and not because you want to be sure I am not secretly plotting to take over this precious rock of yours?"
Steve is amused by your inquiry.
"Is that what you think...that I'm checking up on you?"
"Aren't you?"
He seems mildly offended.
"No, I'm not."
"You're an awfully long way from home," you point out. "Have they run out of mechanics in Brooklyn?"
"No, they haven't. And I don't mind the ride. It's scenic."
You know for a fact that in order to arrive in Solvay this early in the morning, it would still have been dark when Steve departed Brooklyn...thus, no scenery to appreciate for the better part of the journey. But you decline to mention it...because doing so would imply a level of interest in his personal affairs that you generally prefer not to convey.
"I would not know."
"You still don't drive, eh?"
It is not that you mind driving. Automobiles are not terribly complicated to operate, and the United States government graciously issued you a license, along with some other forms of legal identification. Knowing that even a minor gaffe can result in a revocation of your citizenship, you feel compelled to stay close to home as much as possible. You do not wish to risk incarceration, now that Erik is so dependent on you for assistance. Still, you find it ironic that the powers that be feel that you cannot be trusted to own what they consider to be weapons, but they have no problem with you getting behind the wheel of an automobile. Especially since, from what you understand, automobiles are a frequent source of both injury and death for humans.
"I drive all the time," you provide. "Just not across the entire state of New York."
"Why not?"
"Because I have nowhere in specific that I need to go, and it is hardly worth the risk."
"What risk is that?" Steve queries.
You recall your interrogation...and the words of the man who was shrouded in darkness.
"I say we put him in the Fridge."
"Your government went to the trouble to build some enormous facilities for housing beings such as myself. I'm sure they'd prefer not to have done so in vain."
He looks upon you, bewildered.
"You've been pardoned. You know that, right? And most of those facilities have been shut down."
You issue a disapproving click of your tongue.
"You cannot possibly be that naïve."
"Even if you're right," he counters, "people don't get arrested for traffic violations."
"You obviously don't watch the news," you assert. "Just the other day a boy was shot dead by police during a routine traffic stop, because he reached for his cellular device. Of course, now that the prison system is no longer a profitable industry, such occurrences are becoming less common."
Steve's devotion to his country, with all of its peculiar practices, often borders on zealous. Which is a potential source of entertainment, whenever the mood strikes you. While he raises an eyebrow at your criticism, however, he refuses to take your bait.
"So, your solution is to stay in the house all the time?"
"I'll have you know that I go outside every day," you declare.
He gestures to the space around you.
"To the garage?"
"I take Erik to his doctor at least once a week."
"That's it? You don't go shopping?"
"We have our groceries delivered. Except for the meat."
"Where do you go for meat?"
"There's shop not far from here that sells only grass-fed beef and free-range poultry. It is well within walking distance."
"Why can't you just buy your meat at the grocery store?"
"Most of the meat peddled by grocers is full of toxic chemicals."
"Really? I never noticed."
"That's because you're full of toxic chemicals too."
Steve actually laughs at your quip. Which is not quite the reaction you were hoping for.
"I couldn't do that," he says, when his amusement fades. "I couldn't stay in one place all the time."
"Your apartment is in the same neighborhood you lived in, as a child," you observe.
His face brightens.
"Oh yeah? How do you know that?"
"Because you've mentioned it on numerous occasions. Contrary to popular belief, I do actually pay attention when people speak."
He beams, clearly pleased that you would bother to commit such information to memory.
"Well, I like Brooklyn," Steve replies. "I also like to feel the wind in my hair."
"You could feel it a lot better without the helmet."
"Now that would be against the law."
"Are you really worried about a head injury? You could probably jump from a low flying aircraft and survive, unscathed."
"It's not about safety."
"Of course not. You were an enemy of the state once, weren't you? There's probably a cage with your name on it, too."
"Are you always this dramatic?"
"Sometimes even more so."
Steve kicks at the ground with the toe of his boot.
"If there is, there's nothing I can do about it."
"Nothing you would be willing to do, anyway."
"You know," Steve remarks, pointedly, "I didn't come here to fight with you."
His words imply a warning. But as usual, his tone is soft and non-threatening.
You sigh again, bringing your arms across your chest.
"Did you know that research has apparently indicated that humans inherently gravitate towards people who validate their personal ethos."
"No, I didn't know that."
"Sort of begs the question...why did you come here? Surely it cannot be for vehicle maintenance."
"Why do you need to pick everything apart?"
"The first time we met, you compared me to fascist dictator. Now, you are all about turning the other cheek. That is very Christian of you, I'll admit. Still, I am understandably skeptical of your intentions."
He is quiet for a few seconds, carefully assessing what you said. Unlike so many other people you've encountered, he actually listens. While some part of that is undeniably refreshing, it is also rather annoying.
"We've all made mistakes," he finally says.
"Yes...but as I'm sure you'll agree, some of us have made much bigger mistakes than others."
"I guess I prefer not to compare such things."
"Such benevolence!" you exclaim. "Just one of your many admirable traits, no doubt."
"Why are you doing this?" Steve asks.
He doesn't sound particularly upset. He sounds weary. You know that he wants a serious answer to his question. Unfortunately, you don't have one.
"I'm not doing anything," you mumble.
You would actually prefer it if he were angry. It would be easier to cope with than his persistent attempt to forge some sort of awkward friendship with you. You hate just how relieved you are to have someone to talk to, even if that person is Steve Rogers. And you hate that your instinct is to alienate him. You just can't help yourself.
"If you really must know," he discloses, "it wasn't my idea...getting you out. Is that what you want to hear?"
That intrigues you, somewhat.
"Whose idea was it?"
"Banner spoke rather aggressively on your behalf."
You worked closely with Banner, albeit only briefly. And you exchanged only a handful of words during that time. While he was visibly wary of you, you sensed neither animosity nor favor. You certainly would not have pegged him as an advocate for your freedom.
"Missing in action, last I heard. Isn't that right?"
"Supposedly."
"I was not under the impression that dear Bruce's opinion carried that much weight with your government."
"It probably wouldn't," he confirms. "It did, however, carry a great deal of weight with me."
Your eyes narrow as you picture the two men discussing you. You can only speculate as to what was said. You would prefer not to know.
"I don't know what he told you…"
"He told me enough."
"Assuming he was being truthful."
"Even if he wasn't," Steve confesses, "I saw the transcript of the interview you gave in D.C."
Your mouth falls open in surprise. You quickly shut it. You know that you were interrogated. But your memory of that process continues to remain murky and distorted. Bits and pieces have floated to the surface, the rest remaining safely tucked in your subconscious. You rarely allow yourself to ponder it...how they extracted even your most well guarded secrets with ease.
"Tell us more about your mother."
"My mother?"
"Yes...how did she die?"
You shudder at the reminder. You know not how to feel about what he just shared. Because if Steve was privy to any portion of that interview, he already knows how weak and pathetic you truly are. What little of it you can remember still haunts you.
"I...recall not what I told them," you say, quietly.
He replies, hesitantly.
"I know that there were...extenuating circumstances."
"Extenuating circumstances," you repeat. "You make it sound as though I canceled an engagement because of inclement weather."
"It's just that..." Steve pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "most of my friends are dead."
You scoff at his phrasing. You've never really had friends. When you were but a child, Thor's friends were your friends. And they were not even really your friends. They were just people who shared your space...people who tolerated you for your brother's sake.
"Is that what we are, Steve...friends?"
"You'd prefer that I hate you?"
"Oh, are those my only options?"
"No...and I don't hate anyone."
"Of course, you don't," you tease. "You're a great guy."
It matters not what comes out of your mouth. Steve typically does everything in his power to neutralize any potential conflict between you. Since you do actually spend most of your time confined to the property, irritating him is about all the excitement you can get.
He must be tired today, though. Because he attempts to deescalate by merely changing the subject.
"So, how bad is he?"
You know that he is speaking of Erik. But you are no more prepared to discuss this topic than you were the previous one. And thus, your reply is evasive.
"Whatever do you mean?" you inquire.
He tilts his head, incredulously.
"I know he's sick, Loki. He told me."
You continue to be cryptic, although you know not why.
"Sick is a relative term."
"I know that he's going to die," Steve clarifies.
"You're all going to die," you reply, blandly. "Even I will die, eventually."
"Fine," he retorts. "You don't have to tell me. I understand if you don't want to talk about it."
His attempt to manipulate you is amateurish at best. And yet, it is still effective.
"He's moody and incontinent. He keeps trying to walk...but because he cannot balance well for very long, sometimes he falls. He is forgetful and delusional. And sometimes he wakes me up in the middle of the night, so I can search the house. Is that explicit enough for you?"
He ignores your cutting conclusion and focuses on the content of your statement instead.
"Why would he want to search the house?" he asks.
"He is convinced that we have an intruder."
"Do you?"
"No. I told you, he's delusional."
"Well, what do you do?"
You glare at him, dumbly.
"I search the house."
"Even though you know no one is there?"
When it first happened, you were in that in between state, where it is difficult to tell whether something is real or merely a part of your dream. It probably didn't help that you'd just completed a three day stretch without sleep. You were then ripped rather unpleasantly from your slumber to discover Erik sitting beside you. Erik had entered your room a few times, over the years. But he had never done so during the night. And he had never sat down on your bed.
"Someone's in the house," Erik whispered, with no small degree of alarm.
"What?"
Once you processed the deeper significance behind Erik's declaration, you were considerably more alert. Normally when he touched you, it was a quick, friendly gesture. The way that Erik was crouched over you, gripping tightly onto your shoulder, he was obviously afraid.
"What are you talking about?"
You sat straight up and gave him your full attention.
"I heard a noise," Erik shared. "I think someone's in the house."
He must have realized that he'd been holding onto your shoulder for a good deal longer than necessary. Because he released his grip, patting your arm gently before withdrawing his hand.
"Where did you hear it?" you whispered back.
"I don't know."
"Well, what did it sound like?"
For a moment it seemed almost as though he was concerned that might not believe him. You were all too familiar with that feeling. It was, perhaps, what motivated you to take him so seriously in the first place.
"I don't know," he said, once more. "It just sounded like a person."
You threw back your blanket. It was the beginning of winter and you were wearing long, thermal underwear. Typically, if you left your room and didn't feel like getting dressed, you would put on a robe or some slippers. Somehow, it felt inappropriate to bother with either. If there really was an intruder in the house, then time was of the essence. You turned your bedside lamp on and scanned the room, carefully. Nothing was out of place. The windows were all closed, and they lock from the inside.
"Stay here," you told Erik, before creeping out into the hallway.
The house wasn't terribly large, and you were able to search it fairly quickly. You made your way downstairs and peeked out the front window. You even checked outside. You conjured yourself a torch and shined it all around the yard. You walked around the perimeter of the property. But you did not see or hear anything.
"There's nothing," you informed him, when you came back inside.
"I heard something," Erik insisted.
"Well, I didn't see anyone. Maybe it was an animal. An owl or a deer, perhaps."
He just stood there, his face pinched with distress.
"Do you think we could just stay up for a bit?"
You glanced at the clock and saw that sunrise was still at least a few hours away. It was not unusual for you to stay awake all night. But you had never known Erik to do so. You sat back down on the edge of your bed. It was only then you noticed that Erik was rocking back and forth, ever so slightly. His eyebrows were knit with worry. You realized that he really did think that someone might be in the house. He was genuinely afraid.
"There's no one in the vicinity, but you and I," you said, reassuringly. "If there were, I would sense it."
Erik sighed.
"And I've secured all the doors and windows," you added.
"Yeah," was all he said.
He wanted something from you. Although you knew not what.
"Uh…I suppose we can make some tea or something…" you eventually offered.
You shrug at Steve's question.
"It's not that big of a house. It is far easier than arguing with him. And he usually goes right back to bed afterwards."
"Still," he replies, "that sounds kind of rough."
"His physician gave him some kind of medication to relax him and help him sleep. But he is unwilling to use it."
"Why?"
"He said it makes him feel foggy...stoned, is the word he used. A peculiar euphemism."
"You haven't tried to talk him into it?"
"One does not talk Erik into doing things. I believe he's what your people call a free spirit."
"Really?" he asks. "I remember you being pretty persuasive."
You recall your first encounter with Steve Rogers. You were armed with the scepter, ordering a crowd of frightened people to kneel before you. The scepter's power was so great...it allowed you to control others with ease, Erik included. It occurs to you that Steve might actually believe you would do so again. To secure your own personal comfort, no less. It would not be terribly complicated to render Erik unconscious, of course, with or without the medication. But he would wake eventually. And he would know what you had done. The thought makes you positively ill.
"I'm not going to browbeat him into sedating himself," you growl, "if that is what you're implying."
"That's not what I was implying at all."
"If you say so."
He seems to gather that he committed some sort of faux pas, because he waits a moment before speaking again.
"You don't mind waking up at night?"
"I don't need that much sleep," you lie.
While you possess vastly superior physiology, you are still an organic being and you require some measure of rest in order to function.
But things have changed drastically in just the last few weeks. It has been at least a month since you slept in your own room. Due to the fact that Erik can no longer walk up the stairs, he has relocated himself to the living room. He sleeps on one of the couches, which folds out into a bed. The few hours of rest you managed to get were acquired while you were reclined on the sofa opposite him.
You carry Erik upstairs so that he can bathe himself. Though you have taken to washing your hair in the kitchen sink. It takes far too long to fully disrobe and shower, and you can no longer leave Erik unattended for long. At least in the kitchen you can have him sitting nearby in a chair, where you are able to see and hear what he is doing. Sometimes you even remove your shirt, something you would never have done prior to his diagnosis. It's just as well, as Erik does not appear to notice.
You have systematically removed all sharp and otherwise potentially dangerous objects from inside the house and relocated them to the garage. When you are not in the garage, you pull the door closed and lock it with a padlock. The key you store away with magic, to be retrieved only by yourself.
And while you continue to have your groceries delivered, you have not journeyed to the butcher shop in quite some time. There is no way to complete such a chore with Erik in tow. And leaving him home, alone, is not an option. Your diet, as well as Erik's, now consists of things that are quickly prepared...like toast and fruit. In the name of convenience, you have even resorted to consuming pre-packaged snacks.
But you do not see how any of that is Steve's business.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels.
"No new symptoms, though. That's good, right?"
"For now," you confirm. "It is only a matter of time."
He ventures a little further into the garage and inspects your latest project.
"This is incredible," he says. "You made this?"
"Why do you sound so shocked?"
"I'm not shocked," he maintains. "I'm just impressed."
He continues to study the item, which was originally intended to be a masthead, similar to that one might see on the front of a ship. You know not what it will end up being, or if you will even bother to finish it...now that Erik requires so much direct supervision.
"How do you bend the wood like that?" he asks. "I've never seen anything like it. Do you use magic?"
You laugh out loud at the unexpected inquiry.
"I used my hands, Steve."
You point to the lathe. For the first time since you met him, he actually looks embarrassed.
He gestures casually towards the garden.
"Maybe I don't know much about magic. But know I've never seen anyone working in your yard. And the grass never needs cutting and the flowers are always blooming...even in the winter."
"Well, that's mere child's play," you jest.
He stares back at you with a serious expression.
"Most of what you think of as magic is really just an advanced manipulation of energy," you explain.
He nods.
"Yeah...that makes sense."
"And besides...it is also a relative concept. A lot of the things you can do would be perceived as magic by some."
"I hadn't thought of it that way."
"But since you asked...some use steam. That works better for larger things, like boats. I prefer to soak the wood."
"What kind of wood is this?"
"Fraxinus Americana...white ash. They say that Yggdrasil, the father of all trees, was an ash. Different woods have different properties of hardness and flexibility. The ash is stubborn and strong. But with the right amount of moisture and heat...it eventually yields."
"How much do you charge for your...services?"
You frown.
"I don't."
"You don't sell any of this stuff?"
"To whom would I sell it?"
"So...this is just a hobby," he concludes.
"Hobby," you repeat the word, curiously.
"Uh...pastime? For recreation."
"I suppose that is an accurate enough description."
"That's good...that you have something like that."
"Are you looking for a new shield?" you pry. "Somehow I don't think wood would be a practical choice."
He chuckles.
"No, I just...wish I could find a similar way to occupy my time."
You know not what to say. So you remain silent.
He takes a deep breath.
"Um...I know this probably won't mean much to you. But I think what you're doing here is really great."
You wave your hand at the mess behind you.
"Bending wood?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
Once again, you are at a loss. You are not accustomed to indiscriminate praise, especially not for something so mundane.
"It's not that great," you say, flatly.
He appears confused by your response.
"Then why the hell are you doing it?"
You sigh. You have asked yourself that same question and still, you have no answers.
You decide that Steve is unlikely to argue with his own words.
"Because," you return, plainly, "it is better than doing nothing."
