It is almost fully dark before they finally move, and Loki loses time. One moment he is rising unsteadily to weary feet, his breath starting to steam in the damp, chill air, and the next he is ensconced on the couch inside, a blanket cinched tightly around his shoulders.
He is vaguely aware of hushed conversation taking place nearby, of gentle enquiries being put to him that he has no choice but to tune out. A not insignificant part of him wants to explain himself, to put Stark and Vision at ease. But doing so would be to acknowledge what has happened, and that he absolutely cannot do.
And so he doesn't. It is worryingly easy to drift.
Loki's surroundings take on a distinct sense of unreality for much of the following few days. He finds himself caught between the burgeoning threat of poorly understood yet vivid horrors he cannot stand to look at directly and the almost domestic calm of a life that feels like someone else's. The two conflict and refuse to mesh, leaving him exhausted and hollow as he's suspended in between. He is perpetually on the cusp of either all-consuming madness or complete surrender to oblivion, either one of which would at least allow an escape. The effort required not to tip too far into one or the other crowds out every other consideration.
He goes through the motions of existing almost by rote, aware of the others around him but unable to interact beyond performing the most basic of functions. He registers their concern and their attempts to help. A part of him is almost thankful for it. It is just that he cannot devote more than token attention to anything other than shielding himself from the unspeakable visions of terror, blood and agony that lurk just beyond that tight control.
When it starts to slip, he is quickly reminded of why he should cling harder. The mere thought of falling freezes the blood in his veins; the thought of actually landing whites out his mind altogether.
It looms large, this horror he has found. This monster waiting just out of sight. He has no defences in place, no buffer, nothing to counter or dilute the only significant part of his past he now knows. It is raw, like an exposed nerve. It drowns out almost everything else. Rationally, he knows this cannot be the sum of his experience, yet what else is there to suggest otherwise? What possible light can there be when the dark is so thick and impenetrable?
Has he always been some suffering, miserable creature, doomed to know nothing of kindness or love? Are all of his memories to be drenched in blood, grief and brutalisation, whether blood of his own or that of others? Has he been a fool to expect anything else?
He cannot bear the thought. So instead he retreats. He seeks to arrest thought entirely. He simply… stops.
Yet he is not permitted to remain here alone. Nor is he allowed to drift too far. Always he is reached for, and that is enough to catch him.
He is often aware of Stark's presence by his side. Of his voice, low and grounding. There are touches too, physical reminders of the man's proximity and of the engagement he would prefer to coax Loki towards.
There's the hand at Loki's back, guiding him from room to room. There's the press of a thigh against his own as he's joined on the couch, it's owner deliberately over familiar. There are fingers on his, urging him to grasp food, to eat and drink. Then there is the litany of numerous other casual touches as he is brushed in passing, nudged in greeting, reassured or welcomed or acknowledged. He is distantly aware that this is all intentional and that he should not like it, yet apart from feeling entirely too numb and weary to flinch away he finds he lacks the will to object.
Days must pass like this. He doesn't care to count them.
He's not sure exactly what changes, only that it does.
He comes back to himself slowly on one unremarkable evening, his consciousness testing its self-imposed boundaries and deeming the threat of his past far enough removed to permit surfacing.
He is once again on the couch, this time curled on his side, his head cushioned on the arm rest and an oversized sweater wrapped around his frame. His legs are drawn up, his feet resting in the lap of the man sitting next to him. Stark's hands are draped absently across Loki's ankles. They are warm.
The position is strangely intimate and not something Loki would ordinarily have tolerated, but he finds he cannot quite summon the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about it. There is no one here to see.
The room is comfortingly dark; anonymous and safe without too closely resembling… it. Colourful images flash by on the large screen the two of them are facing, though the volume of the accompanying soundtrack is low. Stark appears absorbed by the narrative, and Loki turns his struggling attention towards the dialogue playing out.
"This movie is for children," he observes dully, his words sluggish after days without use.
The fingers laid above his feet spasm slightly at this. Stark is otherwise careful to conceal his reaction and manages a perfectly casual riposte.
"Shows what you know," he says without taking his eyes from the pictures. "Half the jokes in it are thinly-veiled dick jokes. And anyway, nothing wrong with kid humour."
Loki manages a neutral sound that is neither agreement nor dismissal, and this prompts Stark to turn and look at him.
"Hey," Stark says, the word a soft greeting rather than a demand for attention.
Loki drags his eyes back to Stark and responds in kind. "Hey."
The smile Stark gives him tries not to radiate relief but does so anyway. "How's it going?"
A peculiar turn of phrase. One that Loki has heard repeated on many occasions during his time here. What this question is even supposed to mean he has yet to fully establish, although he understands well enough the sentiment. He refuses to respond to it every time it is aimed in his direction, and this time is no different. "What time is it?" he asks instead.
Stark uses the excuse to check his watch as an opportunity to discreetly remove his hands from where they still rest against Loki's skin. "Just after five. Still early. I wasn't thinking of eating until later, but I can scrape something together now if you're hungry? Vision was going to bring stuff back with him if you'd rather wait. We're running a little low on supplies. He's been staying with Wanda the last couple of days. Probably be back later this evening. I can call him though. If you want."
Loki blinks tiredly. The man has a tendency to ramble to overcompensate for feelings of anxiety and insecurity. The habit is not as irritating as Loki once used to find it, now that he understands its purpose.
Stark seems to realise what he's doing, if somewhat belatedly. "Or we can just finish watching this," he adds self-consciously.
"Yes," Loki agrees passively, directing his eyes more or less towards the still-running movie. Stark does the same, both of them apparently complicit in the pretence.
After some minutes of companionable quiet, one of Stark's hands returns surreptitiously to its place where Loki's sock has rucked down.
"We were worried," he eventually admits quietly.
"I know," Loki whispers. "I'm sorry."
The hand at his ankle squeezes slightly. "Don't be. It's okay." And Loki thinks maybe it is.
Vision does indeed return later that evening and tells Loki he is pleased to see him, even though Loki is certain it has not been that long since Vision was last in the house. He treats Loki with the same careful consideration as Stark, mindful of his movements, words and activities to the point where it quickly becomes irritating.
When, after a few days, it becomes clear that Loki is not so brittle that he is likely to shatter at any moment, Stark and Vision rein in their solicitousness and begin to behave with something approaching normalcy. Loki is relieved, frankly, and without the constant reminder of the incident finds it easier to put it to one side. There's also a streak of contrary defiance that runs through him which comes to the fore, and with some determination and plenty of misdirection he is able to convince the pair that their constant smothering presence is unnecessary.
Regardless, Stark maintains his habit of initiating physical contact as a method of reassurance, and Loki begins to wonder if the practice is supposed to be for his benefit or for that of Stark himself. Loki comes to suspect that the man is in fact naturally tactile and is only now allowing himself to express it, perhaps because for the last week he has had no need to control the impulse. Loki finds he does not mind it as much as he feels he should, and at times is almost reminded of something, or perhaps someone, that just evades his understanding.
No one suggests that they should return to the lab, although the thought is never far from Loki's mind. He refuses to allow himself to shrink away from his responsibilities for too long, and while it is true he has needed time to steel his resolve, he knows also that things cannot remain as they are.
He needs something else to replace the howling in his head, needs to believe there is something more than suffering and fear and betrayal.
So the next time Stark asks him if there's anything he needs, he asks that they continue the sessions. Stark's instinctive protest withers almost instantly in the face of Loki's yearning desolation, and Loki's quietly voiced 'please' is what seals the deal.
He realises one day that, quite by accident, he has begun to think of both Stark and Colonel Rhodes as humans, and more specifically as Midgardians. It's a distinction that doesn't make a whole lot of sense considering that he has very little grasp of his own identity as something other, but the labels seem to fit. He doesn't go so far as to use these terms out loud.
Midgardians, he has learned, favour analogy to describe their experience of the world around them. One such saying that could be applied to recent days is one that expresses dismay or surprise at a sudden inundation of information; something along the lines of floodgates having opened. It seems an apt description for the current state of things.
There no longer seems to be any holding back the thoughts that tumble, often unbidden, from the hidden corners of Loki's mind. Whether the incident in the garden has unlocked something important or whether he simply has more now upon which to build, his recovery seems determined to pick up pace with every passing day. At times it is almost overwhelming.
Not only do more coherent and detailed memories return after each reunion with Stark's device (as opposed to the scant, disjointed snippets he had previously been granted), they now return with more frequency. It is not uncommon for him to gain two or three new insights after each session, often spread out through the days and nights that follow. He is careful not to reveal this, concerned Stark will insist upon further chaperoning that Loki does not wish to endure. Then, as more comes back, he finds he increasingly values his privacy. He does not enjoy being scrutinised and having his every recollection picked apart. He likes even less the air of patient disappointment he detects from Stark if he refuses to discuss memories of even the most personal nature. Better not to let on at all.
It is easy enough to avoid detection providing he seeks out solitude following an initial single disclosure. He is getting better at disguising his disorientation when something comes back to him, but there are times when his reaction is beyond his control. If he can ensure he is alone when this happens so much the better.
Such an instance occurs not long after the sessions resume.
It is tiring, this process. As the weeks progress, he finds he needs more rest in order to allow his mind to assimilate all it must now contain. He sleeps long and often, and the seclusion required offers the perfect cover for the discoveries he would rather keep to himself.
When this particular experience barrels into his psyche, however, he is almost tempted to revise his philosophy on the merits of solitude.
He is jolted from sleep with the keen burn of a phantom pain searing his insides, the slick slide of a blade meeting no resistance as it skewers him front to back. He clutches at the flesh along one side of his body and gasps, his fingers scrabbling along the shining scar he has examined many times in the mirror.
The creature in his mind's eye leers at him where he lies trembling, its expression frozen in a reptilian mask of indifference, yet its eyes alive with hateful malice. The dawning realisation it displays before its demise stirs a morbid triumph in Loki that is not quite enough to stem the rising panic taking hold.
He rolls from his position on the bed and falls gracelessly to the floor, his breath stuttering from his lungs as he clutches ineffectually at a wound that is not there. After some minutes of this he is able to push himself to his feet and stumble to his quarters' adjoining bathroom, the overhead lighting flickering on automatically as he crosses the threshold.
He scours his pale reflection in the full length mirror, his shaking fingers finding nothing but imperfect skin beneath the night shirt he has pulled up to expose the site of the injury his senses insist is still there. It takes many more minutes than he would like to convince his overwrought mind that what he sees is real: that he is safe, and whole, and unharmed.
Once he has calmed and the sweat on his brow cooled, he hunches over the sink and splashes frigid water across his face and neck. It chases the worst of the fear from his mind but leaves him shivering in the aftermath, and when he collapses back beneath the covers of his bed he assumes rest will evade his reach. He must be more fatigued than he imagines, because it is not long before he is once again at the mercy of his subconscious.
This time when he sleeps, Loki knows the man he meets.
Where have you been, Loki asks him. You left me here all this time.
But he is not truly angry. Not in this place.
This man is at once his childhood companion, loyal shield-brother and bitter rival. He is Loki's greatest love, his closest friend, his strongest competition. He trusts blindly and he trusts not at all; Loki's fiercest defender, his densest shade, his most merciless critic, the source of his every regret.
Thor shines so bright he is almost blinding, yet Loki cannot bring himself to look away.
I did not leave you, Thor tells him. You took yourself away. You can come back. Come home.
Loki despairs.
I can't. I do not remember the way. I do not know who I am supposed to be.
Thor's smile holds such power that there is no resisting it. When he speaks, his words are everything Loki has missed, though he did not know it.
You may not remember yourself, brother, but I do.
The breadth of memory that blooms in Loki's mind spans centuries, opening doors to parts of himself long forgotten. His sense of self is so intimately woven with that of his brother's it is like watching the story of his life play out through another's eyes. It is everything he did not know he needed.
The unconditional acceptance Thor embodies has a dizzying, narcotic effect, one that Loki almost loses himself in, willing and mindless and desperate.
Yes, Loki thinks. This man feels like family.
It is only later the following morning that Loki's lingering sense of wonder and relief begins to dim. The peaceful clarity of the dream retreats and doubt creeps back in, his waking mind questioning and examining every loosely held desire in the cold light of day.
The conclusion he comes to is a harsh one, but it feels right. He tells himself he should have known better; he cannot keep anything pure and good. It is always ruined, or false, or tainted. The shine always fades.
As more memory trickles in, he recognises all at once that Thor's love is conditional, conditional upon those facets of himself deemed acceptable in polite company. It has always been this way, although something tells him he has only recently acknowledged this truth. He remembers he has no choice now but to hold himself apart, wanting nothing more than to sink into the warmth of his brother's regard, yet determined to maintain his sense of self, to refuse the pull of Thor's irresistible orbit.
Because there is an insidious thread that runs through everything, a resentment that spoils even the best times of his life when looks back on them closely. It is the realisation that he will never escape Thor's shadow. That he will never be his own man.
Because, a cruel voice insists, its talons buried deep, what is Loki without his brother to define him?
Loki is in something of a foul humour for much of the remaining week. It takes all of his carefully refined skill to project a mask of untroubled equanimity even as he spends his idle hours raking over this new insight he has found.
The longer this goes on the angrier he becomes, although where exactly he should direct this anger remains unclear. Most of it he reserves for his past self, even though that man is still something of a stranger. The rest inevitably turns inward, becoming an almost sentient creature that berates Loki for this yearning he seems to have nurtured, this longing for attachment in order to give meaning, for his almost complete lack of self-realisation. He is frustrated that he still seems to have nothing he can call his own, that all he seems to be is a mirror of those around him, that he longs to please, to conform, to belong.
Before he's even consciously made the decision, he begins to harden himself, to give voice to that contrary, troublesome aspect of his personality which feels the only true expression of his inner self that he has yet managed.
He is fortunate he still enjoys the lenient sufferance Stark continues to extend him following the pitiful spectacle he recently made of himself; while his poor mood has clearly been noted it is not overtly commented upon. He is indulged, his every rude comment and curt gesture overlooked with well-meaning forbearance. He expects this from Vision; that Stark falls in with it just infuriates him all the more.
Impatient with himself, he eventually makes the mistake of revealing this possession of his newfound knowledge, if only to get it out of his own head. A self-sabotaging part of him almost wants to be taken to task for keeping it to himself for so long.
Rather than impart his indiscretion in a straightforward manner, Loki offhandedly remarks that Stark should apply himself more meticulously to crafting the derisive sobriquets he so enjoys bestowing upon others; that he's sure with some effort Stark can do better than 'Point Break' if he's to properly ridicule Thor's most egregious qualities. It is almost worth it for the stunned silence this inspires, though the enthusiastic questioning that follows soon sours Loki's amusement.
"When did this happen?" Stark asks instead when it becomes apparent that Loki will not entertain a celebratory exploration of his fondest, oldest or most compromising memories of his brother.
Loki prevaricates with a casual dismissal of Stark's concern and an undeniably haughty pronouncement that not every thought that passes through his head should need to be pre-approved by committee.
Stark is obviously confused by Loki's muted reception of his interest and apparent apathy in the face of the returning knowledge of his brother's many mighty deeds. This tells Loki a number of interesting if unsavoury things: that while his close, if complicated, relationship with his brother is apparently common knowledge, the strain upon it is less well understood; that he is correct to view his own proudest achievements and dearest aspirations as nothing more than the baseline against which Thor may measure his greatness; and that Thor is held in some esteem among those Loki now finds himself acquainted with.
A thrill of jealousy he can't quite dampen or even fully understand drives him to seek his own company for the remainder of the night. A vindictive part of him is pleased to leave Stark so visibly disappointed as he departs.
Sleep evades him that night.
As worked up as he is, Loki is almost certain it is not this emerging, infantile yet crushingly insistent dalliance with his innate sense of sibling rivalry that keeps him from rest.
It is more than that. There is something nagging at him, a suspicion of something just beneath his skin that is struggling for realisation. It is a restlessness that has him pacing the room, a thrumming energy that demands release. It is almost painful, and it is maddening.
He forces himself to sit, to focus his fracturing thoughts on the prickling sensation travelling across his nerves. He closes his eyes and follows the currents, tracking them to their source at his core and mapping them outward again as they swarm and crawl unfulfilled down each limb. They demand direction, purpose, use. They are a banked ferocity battering at their confines, responding to his unease with the promise of relief in their release.
Without any real sense of what he's doing, he flexes his fingers in front of him and opens each palm, urging the foreign sensation to collect and manifest in an effort to channel it away from the tightening in his chest. When he does so he feels an easing that allows him to take a full, unhindered breath, and the calm that descends is like a cool, refreshing draft.
He opens his eyes already half-suspecting what he will see, and the view draws a bubbling laugh from the very centre of his being. The skin of his hands warps and shimmers, a green-tinged light flickering into being. It is directionless and inert, entirely benign, but it sparks a hunger in Loki that has lain slumbering all this time.
He closes his fingers around this nascent power and the light snuffs out. His smile remains.
This he will keep for himself. This is his. He will not share it.