February 26, 2024
Shortly after you came to live with Erik, he supplied you with a cellular phone, in which he had pre-programmed a brief list of contacts. Among those included in the contacts was Steve Rogers. Though in the six years that you have owned the device, you never once found cause to dial Steve's number.
Placing a call is a one-touch process. Which, unfortunately, makes it fairly easy to do on mere impulse. And you know yourself well enough by now. If you allow yourself too much time to mull it over, you will not go through with it at all.
You pace around the coffee table with your phone in your hand, trying to will yourself to use it. You press the button quickly. It only rings twice, before the person on the other end picks up.
"Hello?"
Steve sounds genuinely surprised, almost pleasantly so. When you struggle to speak, you tell yourself that it is something in the other man's tone of voice that is responsible for your trepidation, some element of judgment perhaps. Some...something. Deep down you know that is a lie. The truth is that you know not what you were planning to say in the first place.
The silence stretches on for about ten seconds. You hold your breath. You are disgusted by your own cowardice.
Steve clears his throat.
"Uh, Loki..." he finally says. "I know it's you."
You hastily push the button on the screen to disconnect the call. You toss the phone back onto the coffee table. While you ordinarily take care when lowering yourself onto a seat, you practically fling yourself onto the couch.
Steve calls back almost immediately. You don't answer, of course. You cannot even imagine what you would say. The phone vibrates against the surface of the table, the name ROGERS flashing across the screen in big, green letters. It dances across the hard wood for about fifteen seconds, and then finally lies still.
Shortly afterwards, the phone lights up, indicating that you have received a text message notification.
You sigh and lean over the table. You pluck the phone between two fingers, and swipe at it with your other hand.
I don't know if you meant to dial my number or not. I hope everything is okay. If you need me, call or text.
You stare at the message on the screen for nearly a minute, reading the words over and over again. You try to find a way to be insulted by Steve's offer. But you cannot think of one. And yet, you are still annoyed. Because it is so like Steve to give you the benefit of the doubt by suggesting that you might have dialed in error.
You set the phone back down again.
How you long for the distilled spirits of Asgard. Such concoctions were powerful enough to render you incoherent by the second or third glass. Not that you oft sought escape in mind altering substances. But here on Earth it takes great effort and careful balance to achieve a worthwhile state of intoxication. In order to facilitate genuine drunkenness you must consume an obscenely large volume of alcohol. Unfortunately, doing so usually makes you sick to your stomach. And thus, you rarely bother.
Upon returning home from the hospital, your first order of business was to raid Erik's meagerly stocked liquor cabinet. Within it you found one unopened bottle of something called whiskey, and two half empty bottles of something called rum. You line the bottles up on the coffee table. You pick up the bottle of whiskey. You open it and swallow as much as you can stand. The taste is unbearable. Though you are not exactly drinking it for the flavor.
You try to focus, to figure out what it is that is suddenly making you feel so distraught and out of control. In your mind, all you can hear is Erik calling you son. You know that that it is merely a term of endearment, and not meant to be taken literally. At this point, it may even be purely the result of delusion. It should probably please you to be referred to in such a manner. But whenever you hear it, your immediate instinct is to fill your head with noise, anything at all to obscure your thoughts. You are confused and frustrated by your own response to something so benign.
You used to believe that you were a man, or at least on the cusp of adulthood. But now you feel incredibly young. You wonder if maybe you are not still a child. You know not what has changed and you desperately want some more experienced party to step in and tell you what you are supposed to be doing. It frightens you, on some level...that you actually miss that brief period of your life during which it was Erik who was telling you what to do, instead of the other way around.
And for the first time since the war, you genuinely miss Thor. Because as much as it pains you, and it does pain you, you are certain that Thor would know what to do at a time like this. You're far too cautious a person, always concerning yourself with the finer details of things. You cannot take action until you've assessed all the potential outcomes. Sometimes you cannot take action at all. Thor acted on his whims, which was often to his determent. But unlike yourself, he did not waste a lot of time agonizing about what might be. He simply did what felt right in the moment. And you cannot do that. You have no idea what feels right. Perhaps you never did.
Over the next hour you manage to consume the entire bottle of whiskey, and even a little of the rum. The alcohol has only minimal effect on you. Unfortunately, you know that if you force any more down you run the risk of vomiting. And you loathe vomiting...that complete loss of control over your body. It is unbearable. And thus, you avoid it at all costs.
When the idea comes to you, you initially dismiss it. Because it is completely ludicrous. But the idea lingers, of course, as ideas tend to do. And though you are definitely not drunk, you are just intoxicated enough that your judgement has been compromised. It is for that reason that you eventually rise and make your way to the kitchen. You scan the full length of the counter. The basket where Erik kept his various medications is precisely as he left it. As well it should be. You never had any reason to touch it. That is, until now.
There are so many bottles...one for urinary incontinence, one for something called acid reflux, one for something called hypertension, another for cholesterol. Some are merely labeled vitamins. You lift each bottle and read the information printed on its exterior, until you finally find the words you are looking for: may cause drowsiness. You distinctly remember the phrasing, as it was for that reason Erik discontinued using the medication in the first place. After only a few dosages he complained that it made him feel foggy and disconnected. Which you suppose might be quite unwelcome, unless that was precisely how you were hoping to feel.
The instructions on the bottle indicate the use of one tablet, as needed, and no more than four daily. But you reason that those directions are intended for a human body. Given your superior metabolism, you assume that you might require more of the medication to achieve the desired result. You open the bottle and dump the tablets onto the counter. There are plenty of them, as Erik consumed only a few. You try to decide upon an appropriate dosage. You eventually snatch up nine of the tablets and put the rest back in the bottle. You recall that Erik always took his medication with some kind of beverage. You open a cupboard and retrieve a glass and fill it at the sink. You then pop the nine tablets into your mouth. Even though you chase them with the water, you can still detect their bitter flavor. You slide the bottle into the front pocket of your pants, in case you later decide that you desire more and don't wish to venture all the way back into the kitchen to retrieve them.
You return to the living room and sit back down on the couch. You think that perhaps you will have to wait quite a while before you begin to feel any different. But within the span of twenty minutes you begin to feel exactly as Erik described...foggy and disconnected.
And though it is initially alarming, you ultimately revel in your altered state. You are in the process of debating whether or not to go to sleep or stay awake, when you hear a familiar sound...like a faint scraping of metal on metal.
Rather unexpectedly, the front door swings open. You see the silhouette of a woman standing in the entryway. It strikes you as odd that you did not detect her approaching. Even now that you are staring right at her, you cannot sense her presence. You know not her identity, nor her intentions. You should probably be at least mildly concerned. And yet, in your current state, you cannot bring yourself to care.
You do nor bother to get up. You simply stare in the direction of the door, waiting for the woman to make her way into the living room.
When you see her face, you cannot decide whether to be relieved or irritated.
"I know for a fact that I locked that door," you announce.
Were you drunk, your words might be slurred. Instead they sound strange and far away, almost as though you are speaking through a long metal tube.
Jane eyes you, warily.
"Erik always keeps extra keys under the mat."
She holds up the key and dangles it back and forth for you to see.
You nod. You feel foolish, because that seems like something you should have known, and yet Erik never once mentioned it. You wonder how many other keys are hidden outside. You make a mental note to locate and retrieve them all, at your earliest convenience.
"Why is it freezing in here?" she demands.
You laugh at her assessment.
"It is not freezing."
She walks briskly across the room and peers at the thermostat.
"You have this set at fifty-eight degrees."
"Well, you are a supposedly a scientist. So...you should know that is not freezing."
"Are you drunk?" she asks, gesturing to the bottles on the table.
"Oh, not hardly," you scoff.
"Are you alright?"
You are genuinely surprised by the question. But you would prefer she not know it. And so, you do not reply.
"Look," she says, quietly, "I'm worried about you."
You quickly find your voice.
"I do not need you to feel sorry for me."
Her eyes narrow.
"I don't feel sorry for you."
"Right."
"That doesn't mean I don't care."
"I am not a child or an animal. I do not require looking after."
"Of course you don't."
"I think you should go," you declare. "Please leave the key on the table on your way out."
She folds her arms, defiantly.
"I said I would like you to leave," you repeat, a little more loudly.
Your statement is not nearly as threatening as you hoped. You suddenly realize that you have been more strongly affected by Erik's medication than you originally thought. Regardless of the reason, whatever ability you once had to intimidate her appears to have diminished. It is only just then that it occurs to you...the reason Jane is here. She has been working at the university in Syracuse for the past few years. You know not where she is living. But it must be relatively nearby. After your disconnected phone call, Steve Rogers probably contacted her and sent her to check up on you. The thought of them discussing you in any manner would probably make you irate, if you were capable of feeling irate at the moment. Fortunately, you are not.
Still, you have no desire to placate her. You stand up and make your way towards the stairs. If Jane is unwilling to to leave, you will simply retreat to your room. After all, you are not obligated to entertain her, whether she has a key or not. Except that when you rise, everything around you shifts. Though you grab the edge of the couch to steady yourself, the couch itself actually feels as though it is moving, and you end up adjusting your arm several times in order to remain upright.
"Just how drunk are you?"
You giggle at her inquiry. What you are currently experiencing is nothing like being drunk at all. It is more like being enveloped in a warm cloud of numbness, in which absolutely nothing matters. You regret not taking Erik's discarded medication sooner. If only you had known what magic it possessed. You wonder how difficult it would be to acquire more. You could certainly get used to this.
You push yourself away from the couch and head once more towards the stairs. Though the entire distance is less than fifteen meters, you pause several times to get your bearings. Jane glares at you in disbelief, as you continue to battle against your ever increasing dizziness and disorientation. You imagine that you must appear utterly stupid, if the look on her face is any indication.
She rushes towards you. Your feet shuffle madly, as you back away from her. Somehow, you manage to forget that there is a wall behind you. You collide with it and then slide down it, rather unceremoniously. You land in a sitting position at the foot of the stairs. All the while, the bottle of pills in your pocket is rattling violently.
She kneels in front of you. When she touches your forehead, you swat at her hand.
"Hey," you protest, weakly.
"Stop it," she orders. She presses the back of her fingers against your brow. "Are you sick?"
"I am not sick. Don't be absurd."
"Do you feel hot?"
You frown at ridiculousness the question.
"Do I what?"
"You're sweating," she notes, critically. "What did you take?"
You do not respond. Because she obviously heard the rattling of the pills. Despite your silence, she easily deduces that you have something in your possession. You see no reason to deny it. But you are not going to simply relinquish it either. You passively allow her to pat down your clothing. It does not take her long to locate the bottle, which she pulls effortlessly from your pocket. She carefully examines the writing on the label.
"Klonopin," she reads, "take point five milligrams as needed for anxiety…"
She scans the side of the bottle, all the way to the bottom. Her voice takes on a disapproving tone.
"Loki, this prescription belongs to Erik."
You feign ignorance. You figure that should buy you some more time. You know not what it is that you are delaying...you know only that you wish to delay it.
"Oh dear. Is that bad?" you ask. Though you care not about the answer. You are still amazed that the pills are having any sort of effect on you at all, and you really wish she would leave so that you could actually enjoy it.
"I don't know," she replies. "I guess it could be. How many did you take?"
"I do not recall," you lie, smoothly.
She regards you with a stern expression. She opens the bottle and pours the remaining pills out on the carpet. She counts them and checks the label again.
"This prescription was for thirty-six pills and there are twenty-four of them left. You took 12 of these?"
"I do believe Erik took a few," you supply, casually.
You begin drumming your fingers on the molding that runs along the wall. She must find it distracting, because she lays her hand on top of yours until you stop.
"How many is a few?"
"Uh...two or three?"
She holds the bottle right in front of your face. You do not bother trying to focus on it, as all you can make out is a white blob.
"So, you took at least nine of these? Did you take all of them today?"
"Did I?" you echo.
"It's barely two o'clock."
"Uh oh," you respond, with mock concern.
"This is not funny."
"It is a little funny," you counter.
"It says right on the label do not mix with alcohol. What the hell were you thinking?"
"Evidently, I wasn't," you quip.
She glares at you and slugs your left shoulder with her fist. You barely feel it. She does not know that, however. And so, you clutch yourself, dramatically.
"Why are you always hitting me, you insufferable harpy?"
She ignores both your question and the accompanying insult.
"I'm going to stay."
"No, you are not going to stay. I will not have you fretting over me like...like...like some sort of nursemaid."
"So…I shouldn't be worried that you're going to pass out and stop breathing or choke to death on your own vomit?"
"I am far more durable than you mere mortals. I would never succumb to such an end. And besides, I feel fan...tastic."
"Oh, I'm sure you do. You're as high as a kite."
"High," you repeat, "as a kite."
She rolls her eyes.
"Obviously."
"Well, I appreciate your concern about...my...my highness. Or is it height?"
You begin to laugh heartily at the notion, which now seems more hilarious with each passing second. You double over, as you detect a large quantity of air leaving your lungs. Highness. The word is suddenly unbearably humorous. Your eyes begin to water. You smack your own leg, as you struggle to inhale.
"My highness," you repeat, with a gasp. You can barely contain yourself. "See, it's funny because...because...because..."
Jane's lips are pinched together tightly. Though she is trying very hard not to smile, she does not succeed. You are reminded of how your mother would endeavor to remain composed when you relied upon your wit to circumvent her discipline. Such techniques never worked on Odin, of course. As he had no sense of humor to speak of.
"Let's just...get you moved back to the couch, shall we?"
She stands back up and extends her hands, indicating that you should take them. You do so, theatrically.
"My lady," you declare, gallantly. You bow your head at her. "Tis a blessing to gaze upon thy countenance."
"I thought I was a harpy," she returns, flatly.
Slowly, you stand and allow her to escort you back into the living room. When you plop down on the couch, it takes you nearly a minute to get situated. You squirm and shift, battling against the cushions with your too-long limbs. You do not recall sitting ever being quite this difficult.
"You are excused," you inform her, once you are comfortable. You wave your hand at her, as you would at a servant.
She snorts with amusement. She doesn't leave, however. Instead she sits down beside you on the couch.
"Are you going to hit me again?" you ask.
You intend it as a joke. But it comes out sounding like a sincere inquiry. Your mirth fades shortly after, giving way to something else, something markedly unpleasant.
You remind yourself that you are speaking out loud and there is another person present. Yet, you can't seem to control your mouth. Or any other part of you, for that matter. You now understand why Erik was so averse to using the medication. You feel completely idiotic.
Your stomach tightens, like something is tugging at you somewhere deep inside. You actually consider jumping off of the couch, shoving her out the door and running to your room. Except that you currently do not possess the dexterity to do so. You wish she had simply left, instead of whatever it is she is doing now. No one should be seeing you like this.
"Something's wrong," you say, as the wave of nausea hits you.
"Yeah," she laughs. "I noticed."
Your voice feels shaky. You swallow several times, in a vain attempt to prevent the acid from creeping up your throat.
"No, I mean I..." you pause. "I have to..."
Your hand curls into a tight fist, and you press it against your mouth. You inhale deeply through your nostrils to cope with the sensation. Though it does not really seem to help at all.
"Do you want me to get your something?"
You shake your head, frantically. You have no idea what that something might be.
Despite your negative response, she flees the room and returns with the waste bin from the kitchen. As soon as it is within reach, you snatch it up with both hands and begin to vomit into it. Even after the contents of your stomach are empty, you continue to heave fruitlessly for several minutes. It goes on far longer than it should, and you are horrified by the sounds of your own retching. You really wish she were not here to witness it.
When it is clear that you are finally finished, she retrieves the waste bin from you and takes it away. She brings you a wet towel, and urges you to wipe your face.
"I think I'm going to stay," she says again.
You know not why she would want to do that. But you do not pry. While you continue to be suspicious of her intentions, you realize that it is somewhat agreeable to have another person in the house again.
She regards you, sympathetically.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
You are not alright. You feel dizzy and weak and empty.
"I am a somewhat spent," you admit. "I was thinking that I might lie down for a bit."
She bobs her head in agreement.
"It's probably safe to do so, now that your stomach is empty. But I still think I should keep an eye on you...just in case."
You briefly consider making the trek upstairs to your bedroom. Though you decide it is probably more trouble than it is worth, especially now that you managed to get comfortable. She takes the soiled towel from you. You draw your legs towards your body and curl up against the arm of the sofa. You close your eyes and try to relax. You hear Jane leave the room and then return once more. A moment later, you feel her sliding a pillow underneath your head.
"I'm going to get my laptop from my car," she whispers, "and work in the kitchen."
You open your eyes, just long enough to acknowledge her with a nod. When you close them again, you feel her draping a thin blanket over you. She leaves the room, and you drift off to sleep.