It is not working.
Loki spreads his fingers in his lap and closes his eyes, attempting to place himself back into the serene, focused frame of mind he has previously found conducive to bending his power to his will. He is finding it harder to slip into today, and he knows from past experience that allowing himself to become frustrated will only chase the ephemeral threads further from his reach.
It's illogical, really. When he is otherwise agitated it comes almost without thought. When he strives to find it and control it at other times, it fights him. The contradiction is rather exasperating, the balance between the two difficult to strike. Or perhaps he is overthinking this. Perhaps he is simply pushing too hard.
With a sigh of defeat, he allows himself to fall backward onto his bed and let his mind clear. His muscles ache pleasantly. After so much time spent languishing in inactivity and tedium, his training sessions with Stark offer a welcome distraction. Dare he say it, he might even confess to enjoying them. They have at least allowed for the expenditure of some of the pent up energy he has been struggling to contain at times.
That is not to say he does not see what Stark is doing. Stark's transparent attempts to demonstrate bonds of friendship have been all the more earnest and persistent lately, and Loki has had to make an effort to remind himself not to be drawn in by them. He is not immune to Stark's charms, nor can he deny that there is a significant part of him that craves what Stark appears to offer, but it would be short-sighted to take the man's affability at face value. It cannot be genuine, not entirely. It serves a larger purpose. And Loki is not a child to be petted and groomed.
It has of course occurred to him that the sparring could well be a means for Stark to gain insight into the skills Loki possesses, in the event Stark needs to enforce containment (or, more likely, because Stark anticipates the need for self-defence). And even if it isn't, the camaraderie Stark would seek to instil is likely intended to smooth Loki's edges, to temper him, to render him ineffective once the trap inevitably closes.
Because there can be no doubt that it will close. They move nearer to the snap of its jaws with each passing day. When he is whole again, when he becomes the enemy he knows in his heart he truly is, all this will be ripped away. The friendly overtures will stop. His sanctuary will once more become his prison. It will all be shown for what it truly is: not real.
He wishes it could be otherwise.
So much for allowing his thoughts to empty.
Loki takes a deep breath and raises his arm, flexing and curling his fingers in the air above his face. He concentrates on the definition of each knuckle and tendon, recalls the feeling of channelling the very essence of his being towards them.
Today the currents are quiet. It has not always been so.
It has taken him some time to work up the nerve to experiment, partly for fear of failure, but also because he cannot be entirely confident that his movements are not being monitored. When he had not been immediately confronted about his initial rediscovery of his gifts, he had concluded that FRIDAY had either forgone reporting the display to her creator, or had simply not witnessed it. Loki is certain it's not simply a case of Stark feigning ignorance.
To test this he has gone to some lengths. Over the course of the last week he has collected a number of items whose absence he was confident would inconvenience their owner. He has been careful to avoid immediate detection by utilising sleight of hand to spirit the items into a pocket or beneath a fold of clothing, mindful of course of FRIDAY's sensors. The challenge in itself has been one Loki has relished, and the results most entertaining; there is something satisfyingly clandestine about even such harmless misconduct.
The fruits of this petty thievery he has allowed to remain openly on display about his quarters but denied all knowledge of when questioned. So far, whenever Stark bemoans the misplacement of his belongings and requests FRIDAY's aid in locating them, the AI simply apologises for being unable to determine their whereabouts.
Perhaps when he is feeling generous Loki will return these trophies, but for the moment they serve an important purpose. (And besides, the game is rather amusing.)
Loki has no doubt FRIDAY is able to view him at all times if Stark wishes it. It seems however that, for the moment at least, Stark is prepared to extend Loki some modicum of privacy. When that changes, Loki would know it.
Admittedly there is a small part of Loki that is chary of abusing this trust, particularly after Stark's strident reassurances and declarations of faith, but it is not significant enough to prevent him using the man's magnanimity to his own advantage. As he keeps telling himself, he has no choice.
He cannot afford to reveal the more significant secret he is hiding.
Assured that he may practice without fear of discovery, Loki has been spending as much time as is reasonable sequestered behind closed doors, determined to test the extent of his returning control. The results have been… disappointing, to say the least.
At his best he has been able to recreate the effect he managed that first day, summoning a faltering, ethereal light that promises so much more. He cannot remember the technique necessary to convert it to better use, but he thinks he knows what is possible. After all, he has his memories now of Thor's reception of his past self's gifts, enough that he has been able to infer a particular penchant for trickery and illusion.
And he's seen the footage of himself. Even if he still doesn't remember it all that clearly, he's pieced together a rather unedifying picture of himself and his capabilities. There is something slightly shameful about it, something that tells him he is wrong to take pride in these abilities.
Yet all he feels now is anticipation, a thirst for the knowledge he knows lies just out of reach. Knowledge he knows he possesses already, if only behind the artificial barrier his own power has put in place.
It's so close now he can taste it. He is impatient to reclaim it.
If only he could persuade his own mind and body to cooperate.
He decides that a change of scenery may do him good. He should be safe to leave the confines of his room; Stark is no doubt absorbed in making alterations to his newest suit of armour, and Vision had this morning expressed his intent to leave the house to acquire the supplies that will see them through another fortnight. Perhaps Vision has already left. Neither should have reason to remain vigilant; Loki has already shared with them both an account of his most recently acquired memory — the tale of a sonorous tutor finally imparting some wisdom of interest to a student already proficient in much of the statecraft required of him — and so he need only consider FRIDAY's keen eyes should anything more reveal itself. A short, circuitous lap of the house should be safe enough.
Loki has barely made it into the sitting room before he is encountered. Vision offers him a friendly greeting that Loki has no choice but to return with one that is barely more than lacklustre, even though he'd like nothing better than to retreat the way he has come.
"I am just preparing to leave," Vision tells him cheerfully, oblivious to Loki's displeasure. A collection of reusable grocery bags is slowly accumulating on the breakfast bar. Once Vision has completed his search of the cabinets and located enough receptacles to meet his requirements, he plucks a paper list from the refrigerator door and scans it critically. "Is there anything else you would like to request?"
Loki considers this. He has become quite partial to certain Midgardian delicacies. And Stark has a habit of monopolising some of the choicest offerings.
"More chocolate milk," he decides. "And if Stark has insisted upon a repeat of that macaroni dish, I will not insult my senses with another meal reconstituted from a box. We will prepare it from fresh ingredients or not at all."
He sees Vision tuck a smile into the collar of his sweater as he leans to make a small amendment to his list. That done, Vision considers his clothing and looks to Loki for his opinion. "You and I are perhaps not the best of judges when it comes to the appropriate attire, but do you suppose this will suffice?"
Vision's outfit certainly seems human enough. Loki supposes it matches the garments he has seen people wear in the movies he has been subjected to, or at least those that are set during the winter season. He shrugs. "The red might be a bit of a giveaway, though," he points out.
"Ah yes, of course," Vision says. "Easily remedied."
It is not something Loki has watched Vision do before now, though he has long known Vision possesses the ability. It is how Vision has managed to move freely among those outside their walls without detection, and the reason he has been allowed to leave the confines of the house on previous occasions. Without exhibiting any outward sign of the mechanism, Vision's appearance changes from that of his natural state to one more closely resembling an ordinary man, complete with sandy hair, light blue eyes and smooth, unblemished skin.
The transformation is instant, lacking the ponderous sweep of colour Loki's own form had demonstrated in the recordings shown in the white room. It is also nothing like the flickering images Loki has seen on his own person as he has gasped and shuddered in the aftermath of a session with Stark's device. And yet seeing it happen to another, witnessing it in real time without the accompanying pain and fear he has come to associate with feats of this kind, prompts an unravelling in Loki's mind that leads to knowledge much coveted.
It is all he can do to catch himself against the kitchen counter with a white-knuckled grip, a bland smile forced onto his face in an attempt to cover the thrill of revelation coursing through his body. Vision appears not to notice, already busying himself gathering the items he needs and imparting a farewell before leaving to complete his mission.
Loki lingers a moment longer, unsure whether or not he managed to issue a goodbye, and frantically plans his next move. Should he return to his quarters now so soon after leaving them, FRIDAY may well become suspicious. Yet he can barely concentrate on anything beyond the excitement thrumming behind his ribs. Projecting an air of insouciance to the best of his ability, he opts for a short performance and prepares coffee, forcing himself to wait while the machine runs its course. He then exercises every ounce of his restraint not to hurry back towards his room with all the speed he can manage.
Standing in front of his mirror, it requires the barest flick of Loki's hand to change his appearance. Where before his reflection described the light shirt and jeans he truly wears, he now appears in a similar outfit of darker colours, its truth overwritten by his will alone.
He realises all at once that he has been trying to speak a language before he could read even its basest lettering, and that now that he knows this particular phrase its component parts are clear.
The joy he feels blurs his vision with tears even as he desires fiercely to protect what he has learned from discovery. He practices long into the night and feels happier than he has in a long time.
Loki has not told the others of what he has learned. He is almost certain however that the change in his demeanour has not gone unnoticed. Such a significant piece of himself has begun to return that he supposes it would be unreasonable to expect it to pass without comment.
"You're different today," Stark remarks, a half smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He snags a stick of raw carrot from the pile Loki is assembling, tosses it into the air, then ducks beneath it to catch it in his mouth. The expectant pause he leaves afterwards invites Loki's admiration of this achievement.
Loki obliges with a snuff of underwhelmed amusement which causes the man to grin even wider. Never one to pass up an opportunity, Loki then strives to pass his altered mien off as one of his rare light moods and takes his cue from Stark. He flashes Stark a smirk of his own, going so far as to flaunt the knifework he knows Stark finds so fascinating. The vegetables he's preparing are almost forgotten in favour of twirling and flipping the blade, and when he completes his flourish with a wink Stark's eyes twinkle at him with childlike glee.
"Show off."
Perhaps it is not such a stretch after all. Perhaps Loki really is in a better mood.
"Hey," Stark then says with sudden enthusiasm, "did Vis get those sun-dried tomatoes I asked for? Man those were good." He makes a move towards the refrigerator, and Loki drops what he's doing to intercept him. If Stark thinks he can devour their entire supply in the first sitting as he has done previously he's got another thing coming.
It's a simple case of extending an arm and splaying a hand against Stark's face to halt his progress towards the objects of his desire. The man splutters and flails at this indignity, and Loki grins to himself as he uses the opportunity to raid the shelves himself before Stark can gain ground. Snacks thus safely retrieved, he lets Stark go with a smirk of triumph as he emerges from the refrigerator's cool depths.
"Oh no you don't, asshole," Stark insists, reaching for Loki's arm. "Those babies are mine."
When he later comes to think about it, Loki isn't sure whether it's the temperature that does it, or simply the motion of Stark's hand. All he knows is that when Stark wraps his fingers firmly around Loki's wrist, it triggers a memory that leaves food scattering across the kitchen floor and a feeling like ice seizing Loki's lungs.
His armour crumbles beneath the grip of the enemy ensnaring his limb. The excruciating pain he expects, the cold burn that should strip his flesh from his bones, does not materialise. Instead his skin takes on a deathly hue, an ice blue bruise that spreads and corrupts the skin of his hand even as he watches it shake.
And what can he do but stare, uncomprehending, as a dreadful, sickening truth unfolds? How can he explain this dawning understanding, this terrible suspicion that floods his veins even as he seeks to deny it?
He gasps, his every instinct rejecting this new truth. It is a trick, a mistake, a curse he can contest and explain away. It has to be; he cannot entertain any other possibility.
He cannot be like them. He cannot embody everything he has always half suspected everyone always saw. He must not let the others see.
The horror and the disgust rise up to choke him, even as he strives to remove the danger from the reach of those who know no better. He is wrong, tainted, unnatural — he sees it now all at once.
He snatches his arm from Stark's reach and stumbles backwards, the limb cradled to his body even as he wishes to rip it from existence.
"Do not touch me!" he commands, his voice shrill with it.
Stark freezes in place and gapes at him openly.
Loki backs clumsily away, a feeling of being swallowed whole already blinding and deafening him, his breath catching in his throat, his lungs refusing to allow it entrance.
He is some kind of creature. A dangerous creature. All this time it has lain hidden beneath his skin, a monster in the shape of a man. And he could not even see it. But he felt it. Oh, he felt it. It all makes sense now. He is a lie and a fool and a joke. Nothing he has ever believed has been real.
It is all rushing in: the lies, the betrayal, the all-consuming horror. He feels sick.
Stark is staring at him, approaching slowing, his every step forward forcing Loki back. Can he see? Does he know? Do they all know?
But no. Of course that cannot be. Because if they did, he would not be here now to fear their abhorrence. They would never have suffered him to remain in their presence, nor to have harboured a creature such as he. Not knowingly. Not willingly.
It is almost enough to make him laugh. All this time he'd feared their censure for his crimes, their reverting to cool and bare tolerance for the villain in their midst. They do not even know the true extent of his monstrosity.
But he cannot think on it now. All Loki knows is that he needs to get away, that he needs Stark to stop looking at him, and with that simple insistence his magic responds. There is a gasp of alarm from Stark as Loki's form cloaks itself from view, and it takes Loki a moment to realise what he has done.
Stark's eyes dart about the room, his gaze passing through the place where Loki still stands. Loki feels the blood drain from his face, the shock of this dire mistake apparently enough to register even as his world falls apart around him.
The fates mock him, their love of irony cruelly destructive. Even as he has sought to hide he has revealed himself, revealed himself for the liar and the treacherous wretch he truly is.
Too soon. It is too soon. He is not ready. And it is worse than he could have possibly imagined.
Stark will turn on him now, as surely as if Loki's true nature had manifested in more than just memory. And he would be right to, for Loki is not just dangerous, not just untrustworthy and duplicitous and conniving: he is a monster, too. In every sense of the word.
Stark is searching for him, no doubt furious. Stark calls his name, but Loki does not answer.
Loki flees.
He does not get very far.
In his haste he has failed to account for FRIDAY's protocols, and every exit he would take is closed to him. The elevator does not respond to his commands, and the heavy door to the stairwell remains steadfast. He is trapped beneath the ground in a snare of his own making.
The panic causes him to lose his grip on the cloak he has managed, removing even that tenuous hope of concealment. It may be of little consequence; what with his laboured breathing and poor choice of hiding places it would have taken Stark and Vision little time to locate him. FRIDAY is no doubt already relaying his position.
Sure enough, Vision is soon upon him, though he does not immediately move to take Loki into custody.
"My friend, what has happened?" Vision asks from the far end of the hallway, the note of concern in his voice almost convincing.
The dark and mirthless laughter that this prompts from Loki is unbidden and holds an edge of hysteria, but he can do nothing to stop it breaking free. When it passes the false humour falls from his face and he turns to stand his ground.
"Tell FRIDAY to let me pass," Loki says, the command weak and tremulous and desperate to his own ears.
Vision tilts his head at this, his air of concern only strengthening. "FRIDAY?" he questions.
The AI sounds almost apologetic. "The boss has requested that everyone stay below ground for now. For your own safety."
Vision frowns, and Loki feels the edges of his own nails bite into his palms.
"I think perhaps I am missing something," Vision says carefully, moving gradually closer, "but is there anything I can do to help?"
So he does not know. He may yet be an ally. But that will soon change.
Before Loki can decide on the best course of action, Stark skids breathlessly into view from around the opposite corner, a winded look about him that he struggles blatantly to hide. He does not appear to be in possession of his armour, but then looks can be deceiving.
"There you are," he says to Loki, hands on his knees as he regains his equilibrium. "Gonna need to get you a bell or something." After several moments to catch his breath during which Loki furiously weighs his options, Stark straightens, beckons Loki to follow him, then walks casually back the way he came.
"Get your ass back in here already," Stark says over his shoulder before he disappears around the corner. "Not you, Vis."
Loki stares after the man and blinks. He glances back towards Vision who simply offers him a look of puzzlement, then with something approaching resigned apprehension Loki follows Stark slowly back to the kitchen.
Stark is waiting for him when he gets there, leaning casually back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Loki takes a position opposite him on the other side of the room and does his best to conceal the conflict raging behind his mask of control.
"So," Stark begins, his tone light but his expression strained, "that happened. Wanna talk about it?"
Loki can barely believe his ears. He grits his teeth, turning to stalk a recurrent path between his position at the back of the room and the kitchen counter. Stark asks this in the same tone of voice as if he would enquire after Loki's wellbeing, and yet they both know there is more at work here that needs to be addressed. This prevarication is infuriating.
Loki does not stop pacing, his bearing tense and coiled and entirely without his usual composure. "There is nothing to talk about." A nearby stool is sent toppling to the floor, merely because it is within reach.
The quiet from Stark is disconcerting. There is no sarcasm, no glib joke at Loki's expense, no raised eyebrow, curled lip or any of the other things Loki half expects from the man. If anything that serves to make him angrier. "I really think there is," Stark says instead.
That provokes a growl from Loki. He does not enjoy being toyed with, and if Stark thinks Loki's remaining sense of decency will keep him from acting in his own defence, he is sorely mistaken. "Do not act the fool," Loki snarls. "It does not become you."
Stark drops his eyes for a moment, his lips thinning into a line. "Okay, fine. So we're doing this, then." He looks up, his gaze unwavering as he seeks Loki's own. "How long?"
Loki blusters through the warmth heating his face. "I do not exist for your entertainment, Stark, and I am tired of your constant prying. It is none of your business." A bowl of fruit on the countertop falls victim to Loki's rising ire, and he sends it toppling to the floor in a display of juvenile pique.
The pause that follows is loaded with disapproval. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't keep wrecking my stuff," Stark says pointedly.
"And what will you do?" Loki asks sweetly. "What will you do if I do not comply? Lock me up if I do not disclose my innermost thoughts to you? If I do not confess to desiring my freedom, if I contest the very reason you keep me here? What will you do if I continue to defy you? If I express every thought and feeling I have that does not conform to your rigorous standards?"
If anything, Stark appears unimpressed by this tirade. "You should have told us."
The rage Loki feels is almost incandescent. "Do you regret it?" Loki sneers, the disdain dripping like venom from his tongue. "Do you regret the misguided compassion, the weakness, that has led you to this? Opening your home to a serpent, to a monster?"
Stark huffs, annoyed. "Knock it off. That isn't what I meant and you know it. And don't use words like that. That's bullshit."
Loki is on him in a flash, the pads of his fingers grasping with bruising force at the delicate skin just beneath Stark's jaw and holding just shy of lifting the man from his feet. Loki feels a thrill of satisfaction to witness Stark's eyes widen just slightly.
Stark's voice is low and controlled when he says, "Let me go." Loki holds him for a moment longer, smiles, then releases him with a flourish. Stark falls back a step and rubs theatrically at his throat. He watches Loki turn away with a look of annoyance he probably imagines is stern.
"You're getting better," Stark says, his words incongruous and infuriating and completely contemptuous. "Wanna know how I know it's working? Because you're even more of an asshole than ever."
Loki scoffs at this. "You're not afraid of me. You never were."
"You're wrong there. Now though? Not so much. You know why?"
"I'm sure you're about to enlighten me."
"Because you're predictable."
Loki growls.
"Yeah. You heard me. You try so hard with all the badassery and the snooty put downs. But when it comes to it, you show your true colours. I've got you sussed, pal."
Loki doesn't care for the casual tone Stark uses to impart this, nor for the pointed finger wagged in his direction. He has half a mind to break that finger in two, if only to prove just how wrong Stark is in his estimation.
They are not friends. They are not allies. They are little more than reluctant, temporary cohorts.
A genuine ire Loki only feigned previously makes itself known this time, and he feels his body draw itself to its full height in response. "Do not suppose you have tamed me. I may not have command of my power, but I know enough to know its full extent. You are a fool if you do not fear me."
Stark appears unimpressed. "Uh huh. Of the two of us, I don't think I'm the one who's afraid, buddy."
Loki whirls on him. How dare he. He will make him afraid. He will silence him. He will—
But Stark is already backing away. Not with fear, but with the sort of resigned disappointment usually reserved for recalcitrant children. He is turning away. He is leaving.
"You know where to find me," he says, pausing before he goes, "when you're ready to talk."
And it's almost as though that challenge, that threat to leave Loki to stew in his own anxiety, is enough to break the dam. Before he can stop himself, the words are flowing from him, blurted in a hurried attempt to justify himself.
"Do you think I want this?" Loki demands, the words pitiful to his own ears but beyond his power to control. "Do you think I want to know of the lives I've destroyed? The things I've done? That I've known madness? Despair? Shame? Do you think I want to remember that the last words I said to my mother were to deny her?"
He is mortified to hear the break in his own voice, to recognise the rush of heat to his face that heralds tears. And Stark, damn him, Stark has the gall to look on him with pity.
Stark takes a single step back into the room. "Listen, Loki—"
"No. No." He doesn't need to listen. Not to this man, and not to any other. He is done.
Loki pivots, intending to stride away, intending to leave the room and seek a scene of private destruction that will allow him to exorcise some of his demons with the violence he cannot afford. In his haste he collides with the counter behind him, clipping his side with a jarring force that is not so much painful as unexpected. It is enough to halt him, and the shock of it is what breaches his defences.
He drops heavily onto the bar stool before he knows what he's doing and turns forcibly away from Stark's appraisal. He presses a hand across his eyes to contain himself and to hide at the same time, and he almost chokes on the explosive breath that tries to force its way out of his throat. In the time it takes for him to drag in his next, Stark has crossed the room, hooked an arm over the back of Loki's neck and pulled him in close. Loki is powerless to resist.
The sounds he tries to contain are muffled by Stark's shirt, every wet, shuddering and forceful exhale hot against Loki's face. But Stark doesn't pull away when Loki's fingers clutch at the fabric at his torso, and he doesn't say a word as Loki pours every sorrow and fear into the anonymous dark his arms provide.
It goes on for longer than Loki quite wants to admit, and without his consent he finds himself sobbing openly into the reassurance of Stark's unremitting hold. He is a broken, pathetic thing, but he cannot bring himself to care. He has permission, and with Stark's steadfast protection Loki empties every fear he ever held into the security of that forgiving embrace.