"I have a plan."
Thor cups his hands over his mouth and blows into them, his breath fogging in the air, then rubs his hands on his arms. "Your plans never go the way you say they're going to," he says, his teeth chattering.
Surreptitiously, Loki twitches a finger, creating a shield in the air in front of him that will redirect the heat from their small fire towards Thor. He doesn't need the heat for himself. New York is cold in February, but it isn't as cold as Jotunheim. "Your vote of confidence is, as ever, inspiring, brother," Loki says. "It's better than Get Help, I can promise you that."
"Get Help works every time," Thor says with a grin. When Loki rolls his eyes, Thor adds, "It's because you really sell it."
"As I'm being unceremoniously flung through the air, you mean."
"It's the lead role," Thor says, clearly trying not to laugh. At least he isn't shivering anymore.
Poking the fire with a piece of rebar, Loki says, "Well, sadly, I don't think it would work on Ultimus's soldiers." Though Loki prefers to relegate the humiliation of Get Help to his childhood memories, the unfortunate truth is that they tried it in battle on Ria once, about a hundred years ago, and it worked. "Do you want to hear my plan or not?" Thor raises his eyebrows, inviting Loki to go on, and Loki clasps his hands together, trying not to fidget. "We need to draw Ultimus out. We can't possibly defeat him in that stronghold dimension of his."
A considering look on his face, Thor says, "I agree. But he knows that too. There's no way we'll get him out of there."
"Unless we make it…inconvenient for him to stay where he is," Loki says.
Thor's brow crinkles, then he says, "I already don't like the sound of this."
"Hear me out, at least," Loki says, disgruntled. Thor motions to him and Loki goes on, "We can find a dimension where there's something far worse than him and use the Tesseract to open up a gateway between Ultimus's dimension and that one."
"Loki—"
"We aren't strong enough to defeat him," Loki says, talking over Thor. "We need someone else to do it for us."
"You mean something else," Thor says.
"What if I do?" Loki says defiantly.
Covering his eyes with a hand, Thor says, "Loki, how can the two of us possibly hope to control something that can defeat Ultimus? We could set something terrible loose on Earth. Maybe not just Earth, depending on what it was." When Loki presses his lips together, Thor says, "Oh, Odin's beard, you already have something in mind."
"Of course I have something in mind," Loki says, wrinkling his nose. "It wouldn't be much of a plan if I didn't." He leans forward, his elbows resting on his legs, and holds Thor's gaze, saying, "We don't have to defeat it. Once it's taken care of Ultimus for us, I can use the Tesseract to send it back to where it came from." He pauses, raises his eyebrow, and asks, "Aren't you the least bit curious?"
An exasperated look on his face, Thor says, "No. This is a bad idea." When Loki opens his mouth to object, Thor cuts him off, "I'm sure you think you've thought of every possibility, brother, but no. We can't bring something to Earth that we might not be able to contain."
"I can contain it," Loki insists. "You can contain it." He tries one last gambit, Thor's favorite. "Together, we'll be strong enough." The look Thor turns on him says everything. His brother isn't being taken in by that one. It figures that when Loki finally says it and means it, Thor won't go for it.
"It's too dangerous," Thor says. There's a sternness to his tone, part God of Thunder, part Asgardian warrior, part heir to the throne—but mostly just big brother. Loki turns his head and glares into the darkness that surrounds them, feeling Thor's eyes on him but refusing to look back. There's a long silence, filled by the crackling of the fire, and then Thor sighs and says, "Loki. We'll come up with a different way."
Exhaling harshly, Loki says, "What way? We're losing, in case you haven't noticed. There are more soft spots every week, and they get more and more difficult to close. One of these days the hole will be big enough that we can't close it, and Ultimus will come through with everything he has." His tone grows more desperate. It isn't an act. "Thor, if we don't stop him soon, we won't be able to stop him." He looks back to his brother, his eyebrows drawn together. "We'll be killed, then Earth, and then the rest of the universe."
Thor is silent as he clenches and unclenches a fist. Loki expects Mjølnir to fly to his hand, but the hammer stays where it is at his side. Finally, he says, "Why don't you tell me what this being is called, then. So I know what I'm trying to talk you out of."
Loki picks up the piece of rebar again and wraps his fingers around it. "Ghaszaszh Nyirh."
Loki woke up, opened his eyes, and fixed them on the ceiling that he'd come to know so well. His eyes followed a familiar crack. The plaster was yellowed around it, as though there'd been water damage long ago that no one had bothered to fix. There was a pressure behind his eyes, but he blinked it away, pushed his brother's face from his mind, and sat up.
It was early. The light coming in through the window was pale. Loki swung his legs out of bed and padded to the window, opening it a crack to let in the sounds of pigeons, traffic, and a helicopter somewhere nearby. He raised an arm over his head and propped his forearm against the wall, staring out the window. Every morning, it took longer to clear his mind. Absently, he rubbed the hem of his tunic between his fingers.
The dream—memory—had reminded him that he'd suspected for a long time that this battle against Ultimus was a losing one. It was damage control, nothing more. They needed a way to stop this, and so far, Loki hadn't seen that the Masters of the Mystic Arts had one.
He tapped his fingers on the window frame and let out a breath of air. At the edge of his consciousness, the Tesseract prodded him, and he let its energy wash through him, breathing deeply. What else could he do but keep trying?
Well, Strange had said they were going somewhere this morning, so he needed to get ready. He grabbed the bath towel that he kept draped over the bed's wrought iron footboard and headed for the bathroom to shower.
Just as he got there, the bathroom door opened, startling Loki. He hadn't realized anyone was in there. Strange came out in a cloud of steam, then stopped as his eyes fell on Loki. "Oh, hi," he said, sounding, for once, surprised. "Sorry, I didn't know you were waiting out here."
"How disappointing," Loki said, smiling to try to hide the fact that his pulse had, very much without his consent, cranked up several gears. Strange had nothing on except a towel tied loosely around his waist and Loki had to force himself not to stare. "I rather thought you knew everything that was going on in this house at all times," he added, horrified by the effort it took to make his voice come out normally.
"Not quite," Strange said.
His skin was still wet in a few places and that made it harder to look away. Loki locked his eyes on Strange's face, where his damp hair was falling messily over his forehead.
Damn.
He couldn't move forward to go into the bathroom, not while Strange was there. He'd have to go much, much too close to him, and even if Strange couldn't see the way he was staring, he would surely hear the way his heart was hammering, or the blood rushing through his veins, blood which had surely grown much too hot for a Frost Giant's body to contain.
The way he was standing there was growing awkward, though. Strange had to walk past him to get to his room, and Loki had to walk past him to get into the bathroom. But suddenly all he could think about was what it would feel like to run his palms over Strange's chest and for a human sorcerer, he had…quite the body…who would have thought that under that robe, his biceps and pectorals were that chiseled…
Strange's eyes narrowed and he asked, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder towards the bathroom, "Were you going to go in here?"
The towel slipped, revealing the barest curve of pelvis, of the lines that would lead straight down to—well.
Loki was glad he'd slept in the sweatpants.
Smiling easily—because at least he was adept at that, hiding what was going on in his own head—he said, "Yes. Just waiting for you to move, Strange."
Strange rolled his eyes and took an exaggerated step to the side so Loki could pass by. And once he had, and shut the bathroom door behind him, then locked it for good measure and cast a spell on it to make sure that lock wouldn't be undone, he leaned back against the door and scrunched his eyes shut, breathing out in a slow, sustained exhale. The towel fell out of his hands and landed on the floor in a heap.
On the backs of his eyelids, he could still see Strange, chest bare, towel slipping.
Shit.
The deep breathing wasn't helping. He was aching now and the temptation to do something about it was overwhelming. He couldn't unsee Strange, couldn't stop thinking about him, and the fact that he'd be back in his room now, probably naked—
Also not helping.
Somehow, he forced himself to keep his hands flat against the door. Self-control. He had that, right? Some? Possibly?
And gradually, he was rewarded for it. Perhaps 'rewarded' wasn't the right word. Alright, he proved to himself that he could see his…comrade? Acquaintance? Roommate? Friend? Associate? That he could see the human wizard mostly unclothed for all of forty-five seconds and not have to get himself off because of it. This felt like something that shouldn't have required so much effort. What the hel was happening to him?
He swallowed. Strange, he realized, was like no one he'd ever met. Certainly no mortal he'd ever met. There was the magic, obviously. But it was more than that. It was the way he treated Loki. From the moment they'd met, Strange had approached him as though he had no baggage.
No, that wasn't it, exactly. It was more that he accepted the baggage, wasn't personally affected by it, and shrugged it aside. Loki was a god and Strange didn't care. It was neither a joke to him nor anything special. Loki had tried to rule Earth and Strange accepted that he'd changed and tried to do good to make up for it. From the day Loki had woken up here, Strange had let him be who he wanted to be—who Loki thought, in his better moments, that he could be.
Shit.
Shit.
Abruptly, he wished that this particular ache could be solved with a few minutes and a hand. He knew exactly what was happening here and he didn't like it. Putting a hand to his forehead, he blew a breath out slowly through his mouth, staring at the opposite wall without seeing it. Stephen Strange. How had he let himself feel this way about Stephen Strange? This was the absolute last thing he needed. Making friends, that was one thing. But this, this was something else, something he wasn't prepared for.
How could he be such a fool?
In his mind, he saw Strange again. Stephen. Not only the sight he'd just been treated to, but his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes that could have been blue, could have been green, his sharp smile and sharper intelligence, his magic and his sarcasm and his humor. His scarred, trembling hands, which Loki wanted nothing more right then than to kiss, one finger at a time.
Oh no.
His chest hurt, which at least was a distraction from the ache between his legs. He needed to get ready, and then he needed to go out there, go to Minneapolis with Strange and Wong, and pretend that he didn't feel this way.
What had Strange said to him on the day he'd woken up here? He'd been advised against bringing Loki back to the Sanctum. He'd never made it clear who had advised him against it, but Loki, over the intervening weeks, had put two and two together. There was a reason Loki had never been brought to the other Sanctums or Kamar-Taj. The other Masters didn't know he was here. Only Wong was privy to the knowledge. Loki had a feeling that even more objectionable to the Masters than the God of Mischief's presence at one of their strongholds would be the God of Mischief seducing one of their own.
Granted, that assumed Strange was open to seduction, which was rather a leap to make.
'Seduction' wasn't the right word for it, either. Loki had been the exact opposite of smooth just now. The sight of Stephen's bare skin had turned him into a stuttering idiot.
He sucked in a deep breath and tried not to think the words 'Stephen,' 'bare,' and 'skin' in the same sentence. It was too easy to go from that to an image of Strange and all that bare skin on top of him, or under him, or against the wall, and—
He grit his teeth. And that was the absolute last thing that he should be thinking.
For good measure, as he turned on the water in the shower, he kept it cold. It might not help, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.
