.
THE WRONG LANGUAGE
.
.
She'd never seen him drunk before.
Raine had only meant for it to be a few celebratory glasses of something special.
A little treat to success for their first victory against HYDRA-infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. But somehow, between swapping amusing tales of wild adventures that went disastrously wrong, and reminiscing of recent events, the cups emptied and refilled, and emptied, and refilled. (It was only after she stopped drinking and her full glass overflowed, that she realized Loki had begun using his magic to replenish the liquor in their glasses.)
They got far down into their cups, as one would say.
At least, Loki had.
Raine had meant to stop, to call it a night because they both needed to sleep. Not for any special reason, just because the longer they drank the harder it would be to face the morning. But the liquor was a soft buzz, and Loki had warmed to his storytelling with the liberal flow of it, falling into a relaxed prose of elegance. She found herself reluctant to put the comfortable, easy atmosphere to bed. The friendliness of it all. The sense of casual comradeship.
But Loki never slowed in his drinking as he went on with his stories; delving down into tales from boyhood, when the world was wide and magic not so faded and hard to find. She didn't know if it was the enthusiasm for his storytelling or the liquor that put the warm fire in his eyes, turning them a soft green flecked through with gold, but she found herself struggling to pay it no attention. The same for the smile he displayed, as if seeing something he greatly appreciated. It sent a sensation flying over her that had nothing to do with liquor.
He was drunk, she told herself.
She'd never seen him drunk before.
That was all it was; nothing more. His expression meant nothing.
She'd never seen him drunk before, she whispered to her heart, trying to put an end to its erratic pounding.
This was nothing, nothing at all.
They were friends. Albeit a strange sort of friendship; built on magic and dependency and stubborn determination. But it was only friendship. She glanced at him again and her heart jerked in her chest, not to be hushed when she saw him smile, all walls down, no longer inhibited. He told her of Muspelheim, of an adventure that had ended with only mild burns when it should have ended in a lake of fire.
They fell into a silence full of mirth and calmness and warmth; an afterglow of the liquor.
Raine's gaze flitted from the city skyline outside the apartment balcony, and glanced at him. His stillness and silence had lapsed so long that she began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep.
But he wasn't asleep. He smiled, drowsy and boyish and thoroughly drunk, when he recognized that she looked at him.
She couldn't help grinning. This whole situation was hilariously amusing and simply. . . odd. To see the 'Terror of Manhattan' slouched beside her on a brown leather couch as if he were just another ordinary human, instead of a being on track with mortal deities.
Even as he looked, dressed so he could better blend with the world around him (so unlike the world he'd known in his youth), he stood out. Black jeans and a green v-neck t-shirt, a graphic jacket hanging off his shoulders that made him look rangy and thin, his hair fresh-washed so that it fell down his shoulders in glossy pitch-dark ribbons, couldn't detract from the Otherness that hovered about every aspect of his person. With the aid of the delectable fugue of the liquor, her mind ran wild on images that his form invoked.
An immortal goth escaped from some punk-rock side-shop in the mall.
A street musician without a street or music to expound upon.
A graffiti artist lacking both medium and canvas to express his rebellion against the boundaries in which the world would have him lie.
She smelled the magic on him; like books and ice and pine forests and musky ashes just after the fire is put out. It was soothing, and reminded her of everything they'd done together; the good and the painful and the wicked. How much he'd taught her about her own talents; how much more he'd taught her to control them, wield them, and accept them even though it felt at times like a bitter flame licking her blood that she wanted to struggle against.
Loki tilted his head, regarding her. "Láta ek jafnan talt ér hvé vænn thinn auga ru?" He asked, still smiling with drunken laziness.
The foreign, strange utterance surprised her. She grinned in apology. "I don't know what you're saying."
He sat up slowly, setting his glass down beside the bottle on the coffee table, a leaned toward her. As if he hadn't heard, he continued in the same indecipherable language: "Hvé thinn auga ljóma líkr stiarna um sá efstr stikill ór nótt. Thú ert svo falleg ad thú færir sál mína ad sársauka fyrir thig." He shifted, sitting so he braced one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other resting along the back of it, pinning her between his body and the cushions. But strangely, she didn't feel trapped; the softness in his expression was too nonthreatening. Her heart beat furiously at their closeness. He bent his head above hers. So close that if she leaned forward, their noses would touch.
"Minn Elska."
Raine shifted.
His eyes peered into hers, relentless with their intensity. The light in them flickered, illumined by something she couldn't exactly determine, and didn't know if she wanted to understand. But it made her think about all the feelings and fantasies she'd hoped not to revel in tonight. Those ones that made her ache to be close to him, for his touch against her skin, his hands on her body, his mouth claiming hers.
But despite herself, they came unbidden as their gazes met, and held, and remained unbroken. Despite how fiercely she fought to chain them down, to tie them back.
How easy it would be, to lean forward, touch their lips together; feather-light, just a brush.
Just to see if he tasted of magic as much as he smelled of it.
She'd tried not to spoil the moment. She'd really tried. But it had been ruined anyway; in part by Loki's own inexplicable behavior. He pressed closer, and their noses did touch then, sending a heady shiver down her spine against her self-determination.
"Minn Elska, fridr fljód," he murmured, eyes searching her face as if for some sort of answer.
Bitterness at her body's reaction to the low whisper, and the look in his eyes, and her own forbidden thoughts, made her words harsh and loud. She hadn't meant for them to be, but they spun off her tongue and she couldn't take them back.
"I have no idea what you're saying. It's not funny; actually, it feels sort of rude. I wish you'd stop doing it."
Loki hesitated then, a shadow hazing his eyes. With a motion far more fluid and graceful than she'd anticipated for someone who had to be mind-blowingly drunk (far more drunk than any human being could possibly be), he retreated back to his side of the couch. His eyes clouded to green-grey as he sat there, glancing at her.
The absence of his presence was acute, and she hated that she minded the lack of it. She tried to shove it out of her mind, but the scent of smoldering pine lingered around her from his recent nearness and made it impossible.
Loki dropped his head back and sighed. Tossing his head, he looked across at her with a more familiar, mildly aggravated expression on his face. "Wretched, infuriating woman. I believe. . . I do love you."
Her heartbeat shuddered inside her chest, pressing painfully against her ribs like a bird desperate to break loose of its cage. Exhaling in shock, she stared back at him.
Loki smiled, studying her features as she scrutinized his face. Uncertainty swirled through her middle, confused by the blunt and unexpected admission. Her brain reached a reasonable conclusion for the behavior that would be satisfying, even when it wouldn't be later.
She'd never seen him drunk before.
"You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying. That, or you're teasing me." She offered a return smile, though hesitant. She craved having back the comfortable moment they'd had before all of this.
He sighed. "Perhaps, minn drottning." He shrugged carelessly as he spoke, before flinging on arm out along the back of the couch. "But I shall love you still in the morning. I will not speak of it, however, if that is how you wish it be." He dropped his head, eyes drifting closed.
Raine studied his face, watching as his breathing evened out and he began to drift toward sleep.
But her traitor heart just had to know.
"Do you really?"
Her voice was gentle and soft in the quiet.
Loki shifted, but didn't stir.
Raine smiled sadly. She looked at him, studying his relaxed features. He'd probably forget all of this come morning. Or, at the very least, think he'd dreamt it all. Because he couldn't have meant a word of it. She turned away, hugging herself and suddenly feeling empty.
"I mean it, truly."
The growl of his voice broke the silence that had enveloped the living room, giving contradiction to her thoughts.
Raine whirled to look back at him.
Loki still lay sprawled across the cushions, but his eyes were open again, and he looked alert, for all his drowsy appearance.
And then, without warning, he lifted an entreating hand toward her. She glanced down at his open palm, then back to his face.
"Come here. Please."
His voice was low, and her heart clamored to answer it. Hesitant, she lay her hand in his and shifted on the couch to move nearer him.
As she came within a foot of him, he pulled her without warning. Drawing her down against him with unexpected gentleness, he curled his arm around her waist and settled his hand easily over her hip as if he did it often. Her shirt hitched up, lying against him as she was, and his fingertips slowly began to draw nonsense circles and runes she didn't know the meaning of across her skin.
Against her better judgment, but reveling in this fantasy-brought-to-life, Raine sighed in contentment. Cautiously, she slipped her left hand up against his steady heartbeat. Unlike hers, it was even, and slow. When Loki remained still, she slowly lay her head down on his chest, just beside her hand. She wanted to savor this moment; especially if tomorrow they retreated back into their familiar safety of odd friendship. Shifting, she draped her arm across his waist, fitting herself better against him.
"Mhmm, betri," he whispered, his breath stirring strands of her silver hair. "Ég elska thig."
"You're saying things in the wrong language again," she murmured against his shirt, smiling.
"I love you," he returned, his voice a drowsy rasp. He bowed his head, nuzzling her hair before resting his nose against the side of her face, breathing in her scent of war and ruin and triumph.
"Do you mean it?" she breathed, curling her fingers into his shirt.
"By my life, I do," he replied, smiling with his eyes closed, "my queen."
A/N:
This is a series of one-shots and such-what inspired by songs or prompts; or bits and scenes from fanfics that I discarded because the didn't fit the plot (but I didn't want to get rid of them completely). The title comes from the song Cassiopeia by Sara Bareilles (which I just ADORE).
I'm not a linguist or to be considered any sort of expert in Old Norse/Scandinavian languages. I borrowed from a lot of sources online (including, unfortunately, Google Translate. I apologize if anything is inaccurate or incorrect).
Translations of what Loki says in this chapter:
"Láta ek jafnan talt ér hvé vænn þinn auga ru?"
[have I ever told you how beautiful you look?]
"Hvé þinn auga ljóma líkr stiarna um sá efstr stikill ór nótt. Þú ert svo falleg að þú færir sál mína að sársauka fyrir þig."
[How your eyes shine like stars at the highest point of the night. You are so beautiful that my soul aches to touch your soul.]
"Minn elska."
[my love]
"Minn drottning."
[my queen]
"Ég elska þig."
[I love you]
~ Windy