Okay, people! Back to a Loki POV, and it's finally dinner time :)

PREVIOUSLY ON ASAF: "All right then, guys and gal, let's get ourselves some shawarma!"

CHAPTER 4

Curse the Norns, this was humiliating! Not being able to walk on his own or even stand, and having to lean on a mortal of all people! And this particular mortal was… his sou— No, he was not going to think about that! Why? Why was Fate so cruel? What had he done to deserve this death sentence?

Of course, he knew he had done terrible things. Trying to destroy Jötunheimr, trying to kill his adoptive brother, helping Thanos in his thirst for power – even though that was not entirely his doing – and killing innocent Midgardians in the process. And that was only in the last few years. Still, it was not as if Fate had been kind to him before; what about his heritage, the fact that his parents – adoptive parents – had lied to him all his life, and his continuous suffering in Thor's glorious shadow. Really, he did not think this death sentence was deserved!

Fate was indeed cruel, but what was done was done. It was, unfortunately, what was meant to be. He would just have to make do. He made sure his depressing thoughts did not show on his face, and leaned a little more on Stark's armoured arm while they walked out of the mortal's tower. The metal felt warm under his skin – which was probably because he was a Frost Giant. Even if he purposefully did not look at his hands, his body would not let him forget. And if he did not have the strength to walk, he definitely would not have the strength to shapeshift into his preferred Áss form.

Stark's armour creaked at every step, and Loki doubted that was part of the sleek design. He had not seen the mortal return from the portal before he felt Selvig close it – his vision had started to go black by then – and he wondered just how much damage Iron Man had sustained during those few minutes of absence. This armour had looked brand new before Stark left to collect his 'nuke'; Loki still did not know what exactly a 'nuke' was, but as it looked like it had destroyed a Chitauri mothership in a few seconds, he had to admit that mortal weaponry was more impressive than he had initially thought.

They had not made it far before Stark stopped and gasped. "I that my 'S'? As if knocking it off my tower wasn't enough, they have to leave it on my sidewalk? Talk about psychological torture!"

"Get over it, Stark. As if you didn't have enough money to build three other towers," Barton said without looking at them as he walked passed.

"Only three? You hurt me there, Katniss! I thought Shield knew everything about the contents of my accounts."

"As if I care. Where's that diner you've been talking about? The sooner we finish this stupid little excursion…"

"No need to get nasty because you're hungry! Jarvis?"

The disembodied voice answered through Stark's armour. "Left, Sir." As one the 'Avengers' – what ridiculous appellation – turned in said direction, walking around debris and cadavers, the majority of them Chitauri. Whenever they were not, though, Loki would receive accusing glares from the archer, and sad looks from Thor. Although Thor looked at him like that constantly, and it was probably more about Loki rejecting his false brother than anything else. When he thought about it, using Stark as a crutch was not so bad after all, if Thor was the alternative.

A dozen or so minutes later the voice of Jarvis announced they had arrived. Loki may not be able to judge mortal eating places as he did not know what they usually looked like, but this one did not impress him in the least. Of course, the broken glass of the windows and the dust and pieces of concrete of the wreckage littering the streets should not influence his judgement; he could still imagine what this place had looked like before. Then again, he did not know what this 'shwarma' was; perhaps it was some sort of peasant food, which might explain the design of the place.

Their feet crunched on the glass and the sound seemed loud in the uncharacteristically silent streets; a frightened middle-aged mortal peeked out of a back door, before coming out, brandishing a broom like a weapon. "What do you want?" he asked in a hostile tone.

Stark continued advancing towards a table, and with his metal boot he pulled a chair out. "There, how about you sit down?" Loki slowly lowered himself into the strange amalgamation of metal, wood and unrealistic leather, and he heard the broom-wielding mortal gasp. It looked like the Midgardian only now really saw his customers and their strange accoutrements – or their obvious non-Midgardian origins.

"Who… Who are you people?"

"Hi there! I'm Tony Stark. Or Iron Man. One and the same, really. I own the brand-new tower that's just a block away. I don't know if you happened to see the alien attack that was going on just on the other side of your broken windows here, but if you did, you maybe also know that there was an awesome superhero team fighting those ugly things, and that team, that's us. We even have a catchy name and all! The Avengers. Plus one. For dinner, here. If you happen to have any shawarma. This is a shawarma place, right?"

The owner seemed at a loss for words, and Loki would not be surprised if he had not understood much of that speech – if he himself had not already known what Stark was talking about, he might not have understood either. Stark's speech patterns were one of the most curious he had ever heard after all, and perhaps other mortals had the same difficulties understanding him than Loki did.

"I'll pay triple the price for your trouble. How about that?"

"Errrm…" The man still looked uncertain, his gaze switching from face to face and lingering on Loki's before focussing on Stark once more. Loki could not see his face, but he could very well imagine the probable smile and trustworthiness displayed on it – Stark was a master negotiator, was he not? And indeed, the grip on the broom slackened, and the mortal made his decision. "All right, I'll re-open for you, then."

"Great! We'll put these tables together, and we'll take plenty of shawarma, with whatever best goes with it! You're the expert, so I'll leave that up to you. Oh, and also whatever alcohol you serve, too."

"And plenty of water, thank you," Captain America added before taking a seat next to Loki. He supposed it was meant as a way to reassure the more vulnerable members of their team – the physically weak – that he would keep an eye on their (previous) enemy and defend them in case of attack. Not that a mortal with nothing but muscles could do anything against magic if Loki was indeed inclined to incapacitate them.

A well-known and very unwelcome hand landed on the backrest of the chair on Loki's left, and he let out a frustrated sigh. There was no way he would sit here stuck between those two! "Stark," he called out, and the man turned towards him and smirked.

"What is it, darling?" Loki just gritted his teeth and glared. As if he was going to say it out loud. Especially since it appeared that he did not have to. "Hey, big guy! Thor, buddy! Sorry, that's my spot. Forgot to mention it."

"Son of Howard—"

"Nope, it's Tony! And I mean that for all of you. I'm sick of this last name bullshit. We're a team, right? Then it's first name only."

From his place at the far end of the table – as far away from Loki as he could get – Barton snorted. "Right. And since when do you remember people's first name?"

"Since always, Clint. I just pretend I don't because I'm an obnoxious arsehole."

Loki could not stop his lips from stretching a bit at that. "What an admirable trait."

"Thanks, honey! I'm glad you like it. And Thor, I'm serious, that's my chair. There's no way you're getting me away from a blue alien. You know, scientific study and all that shtick." Still Thor held onto the piece of furniture, and Loki sighed. He knew well enough how stubborn his adoptive brother could be. Stark might not be capable of luring him away.

"Okay, how about we ask Loki what he wants?" That provoked a stunned silence and snorts of disbelief. "I'm serious. He's the one primarily concerned after all. So how about it?" And Stark looked at him expectedly.

Loki raised an eyebrow. "What if I choose Barton?" Said mortal started chocking on his own saliva, and Loki's supposedly innocent expression could only transform into the very face of mischief.

"First off, it would be 'Clint', because I said first names only—"

"I thought that was only for your 'team'."

"And this table. And second, choosing Clint would be a lie, as it isn't what you want. Which was the question. What do you want. Remember?"

Loki let his face smoothen out again. Even though their methods were very different, Stark also had his way with words. He also knew the importance of their choice, and how to get what he wanted through their manipulation; the only difference was in their approach – while Loki now mocked and sneered, Stark smiled and jested. Similar yet opposites. Fate certainly had a sense of humour.

"So. Have you made a choice?" The mortal even had the gall to look smug. As if he did not know Loki would prefer to have none of these imbeciles near him.

"Stark," he managed to say instead of growl. He could not control his annoyance seeping through his voice, though.

Stark smirked all the wider. "Sorry, who?"

Loki closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists under the table. "Anthony."

"Nope. Uh uh. Not happening. My father called me that and… Well, there is a reason why I chose to go by Tony."

Whatever that reason was, Loki was certain it had not been produced by a joyful event – that much was clear in his voice. Of course Stark would have issues with his father as well. Why was he not surprised? Ah, yes, because he knew how much Fate could not leave well enough alone. He thought only for a second about saying the name again to antagonise the mortal – that was what he usually liked to do – but he knew it would not serve his purposes here. He was better off with Stark on his side. And not only now, but for the rest of his short life.

"Tony," he said in defeat, and the manner in which the name rolled of his tongue felt like bitter surrender. Fate was probably laughing herself silly.

Stark's smile was wide and bright, genuine pleasure illuminating his features. "Okay, babe, you've convinced me! I'll sit next to you." And while Stark glared Thor down and took possession of the chair, Loki pondered Stark's strange monikers – which he understood to be normal pet names used between lovers. That Stark would use it as banter was rather ironical, and yet again Fate must find it most funny. If the mortal knew what Loki knew, he probably would not jest this way. Still, it seemed to grate on the nerves of some of the Avengers, and for Loki that was reason enough to participate in this mock wooing.

"Why, thank you, darling. How magnanimous of you."

"Magnanimous. Yep, that's me all right!" Stark quipped back. The Black Widow snorted in a most inelegant way while Stark lowered himself down into the chair, which creaked because of the Iron Man suit he was still wearing.

On his right, Rogers turned to try and catch Stark's eye. "Are you going to eat like that? It can't be comfortable."

"It would be way too complicated to take the suit off without Jarvis. And anyway, we're all looking very cool in our costumes!"

"Yeah, apart from the red-eyed demon sitting next to you!" Barton growled from the other end of the table, slumped into his seat with his arms crossed. He looked like a petulant child. He did have a point, however. Loki was still wearing his Jötunn skin; perhaps he had regained just enough strength to change that. He was about to close his eyes to concentrate on his shapeshifting when the smell of strange food reached his nostrils, and trays of this 'shwarma' arrived. His stomach rumbled, and at this point he could eat anything, even unsavoury mortal food.

Hands shot out from all angles to pick up the odd paper-covered contraptions, and Loki waited until the rush had ended before taking one of his own. Next to him there was an electronic whirring and soft clicking that bared one of Stark's hands before he too selected one of these 'shwarma'. He put it down in front of him, and held his other hand above the table, palm up. "Okay, here goes nothing." The second the gauntlet started to retract, the mortal out a loud plethora of profanities. "Holy shit! Argh! Fucking hell that hurts like a son of a bitch!"

All eyes turned towards him, then towards his purple and swollen hand, and chaos ensued. Among the 'how did you do that?' and the 'why didn't you treat it, you idiot', Doctor Banner stood up and walked over to Tony. He took hold of the injured limb and turned it this and that, pressing in some places.

"Ouch! Stop that! Do you even know what you're doing? You're not a medical doctor!"

"You definitely broke a few bones here."

"That's great, Frankenstein, but there is nothing I'm gonna do about it now. We're eating first."

"Sta— Tony, you should treat it as soon as possible! Time could be critical for the well-being of your hand!" Banner suddenly did not look as calm as he always did, and Loki felt the tension in the room rising.

He looked at the hand that he had hurt. He had not done it on purpose, but the fact that he had unknowingly broken bones… Mortal bodies were so fragile. He should feel guilt, shouldn't he? His eyes flicked up to Stark's face, and the man smiled at him, and did not say anything. He could accuse Loki for this injury; it was perfectly in his right this time. And yet it seemed Stark did not intend to say anything. How could he not? Loki would have accused his aggressor immediately if said man was sitting next to him. That silence made him feel all the guiltier, and that was a rare occurrence, for he usually ignored the victims of his actions. He had learned to do that the hard way. Now, though, he could not stop himself it seemed.

He moved his own hand – his painfully blue hand – slowly towards Stark's, leaving him time to refuse his touch, but the man did not move. The instant their skins touched, surprised silence invaded the table. Loki closed his eyes and tuned out the outrage that followed; he probed the injury with his mind, amazed by the ease with which he could penetrate the skin with his magic – especially since it was so very weak at the moment. No, this was not his magic, it was Stark's innate magic that came up to his hand, and except for the metallic tang of the mortal's glowing heart, that magic felt just like his own. He could shape it easily, and use it to reverse the damage of the flesh. How peculiar; yet if he thought about it, unsurprising. Stark gasped, and when Loki opened his eyes and removed his hand, the limb had returned to its normal size, and the skin had merely an almost healed yellow-green hue.

"Healing is not a branch of magic I often use, I apologise for the left-over tenderness."

"Oh." Stark was speechless for a time, looking over his hand and manipulating it. "No, it's okay. This is great, thanks!"

"It was the least I could do, considering." And he should have done better. Healing, as a form of water magic, should have come easily to him. He had been a fool to ignore his training, preferring the combat magics of earth and fire, because they were more impressive, even though they were incompatible with his elements. He just had not wanted to look weak, as healing magic was what every woman was taught. Now, though, he felt he would regret it; he was probably going to need healing magic more and more often.

Banner inspected the hand once more, amazement and disbelief painting themselves on his features. He was receiving suspicious glances form the two assassins, and Thor was crying again – probably thinking something along the lines of 'my brother is back' or other similar foolish notions. Stark batted the doctor away, and picked up his meal again, slowly unwrapping it. Loki' own bundle, when he held it in his hands, felt scalding hot; the consequences of his Jötunn skin.

Stark took his first bite and made a very comical grimace. "Oh. My. God."

Loki could not stop himself from answering: "Yes, dear?"

"Har har. Not you. Christ, if I'd known I'd have ordered pizza or something. Is it just this place or should I just never eat shawarma again?"

Rogers, who had almost finished his own, frowned at his food. "It's not that bad."

"Speak for yourself."

"I've eaten better shawarma in the past, that's true," Banner interjected. "But perhaps today isn't their best day, you know."

It was Stark's turn to frown. "Wait a sec! Weren't you vegan a few minutes ago?"

"Not really. I'm just eating less meat for practical reasons. Meat is not very good for the skin, it has a tendency to make it turn green," the doctor said with a humourless smile. "But I think today I can make an exception."

Loki stopped listening to the futile conversation, and unwrapped his 'shwarma'. He took a tentative bite that was definitely still too hot for his sensitive mouth, but he could tell that it was not really the type of food that he preferred. Whose idea was it to shred meat to pieces and cook it so long? It was better barely roasted, all red and tender inside. His now strangely sharp teeth had nothing to tear apart; this cuisine left much to be desired. Still, food was what he needed, and its form was not that important in the end, even if it was dissatisfying.

He had finished more than half of this bizarre meal when he felt a sudden surge of magic encompass his skin, tingling down from the crown of his head to his toes. Some sort of spell had just been cast, but he had not done anything! Who— No, this was his own magic signature… It couldn't be his shapeshifting, he would have recognised it, even if cast unconsciously… Loki looked back at his fingers to make sure, and indeed they were still blue. And held between them, his 'shwarma' had taken a blue tinge as well when it had completely frozen over. Oh, curse Fate, what now? He let his inedible meal fall onto the table, where it shattered in a thousand pieces.

"Woah, there! I know the taste ain't great, but there is no need to destroy the sandwich like that."

Loki's sigh was probably audible at the other end of the room. By Valhalla, this had been an awfully long day. "If I had had a choice, I would not have done it either." He let his hands fall back on the table. It lasted only an instant, however; ice spread over the surface and froze the water in the three closest glasses and all around the table people jerked back. Loki did not need to look down to know his chair was stuck to the floor, and frost covered his clothes.

"Uhm, could you stop that, sweetheart? You're scaring the kids."

"I'd love to, Tony dearest, I only happen not to know how. It's the first time I've been wearing my true skin for so long, and with my depleted strength and magic, I suppose some innate defence mechanism has activated."

"I believe that, at this time, my brother should not be touched. Frost Giant ice magic is very dangerous." Thor's expression was grave, undoubtedly remembering his past battles against the Jötnar. Loki bit the inside of his cheek so that he would not start a fight by insulting the golden prince of Asgard. Obviously Thor was comparing him to those brainless savages they had fought together, and Loki hated it. He hated being Jötunn, he hated—

"Frost Giant?" Barton eyed him in contempt. "I don't think we've got the same definition in mind, you and me."

"They are indeed giants; however, Loki is a runt. That is why he was abandoned, and the Allfather—"

Suddenly Thor fell silent, as did the rest of the party, and the only sound remaining was a loud, low rumbling that was strong enough to reverberate in Loki's head. It was only when he noticed that the eyes around him where fringed with fear that he realised the rumbling came from him; he was growling and snarling like some weak-minded beast! When he closed his mouth the sound was cut off, and tiny shards of ice fell down all around them. That… was not good. Perhaps he should endeavour to stay calm.

"And you're sure you can't, like, become… peach-coloured like us again? Would that help, or…"

"It would indeed help. I don't have the energy to shapeshift, however."

Romanoff's voice was harder than steel, while the rest of her body appeared utterly relaxed. "Perhaps you should try again."

Loki shut out the world and looked within. His connection to Yggdrasil's branches was still too frail to channel any magic along it, so his only source was the energy he produced himself; that same energy that had been depleted during that agonising fight for his soul. Furthermore, this ice magic was using small amounts of his depleted core, making the regeneration process even slower.

As an unlearnt racial spell, he should be able to activate or deactivate it easily; if only he had learned how. Perhaps it was linked to a certain organ, just like Æsir self-healing trances started with the heart – something he had had a lot of difficulty learning, perhaps because in his true form his heart was placed higher, and a shape-shifted body only changed the physical core, not the magical one. For this ice-magic, until he found where it had activated, he could not deactivate it – unless, perhaps, he overruled it with a wave of pure magical energy. Which he did not have.

Even if he managed to shapeshift, the ice spell might continue. It might even force him back to his true skin, just like the Casket of Ancient Winters had done. Still, he might as well try. Even if the ice spell remained, he would feel better if his skin was not blue. If he looked like an Áss again, he could pretend to forget, and pretend he was Loki, Prince of Asgard, instead of Loki, son of Laufey, unwanted son of a monstrous king. A late monstrous king; he had killed his biological father after all – adding patricide to his list of crimes.

Shapeshifting was not that complicated, once you learned how to use this innate skill. It was a question of imagining the form one wanted to take, and think of one's entire skin as the focal point of the magic. Strangely enough, it did not even feel like a spell, and more like a movement of the body – shapeshifting linked physical and magical so intricately that it was difficult to distinguish them from one another once it started. It was just a matter of getting it started, and the transformation would develop on its own – as long as the magical and physical energy were there to sustain it.

The lack of both was why he expected it to fail, and fail it did. He managed to start it, the familiar tingling spreading everywhere, growing in intensity, but then it faded, like the sun behind a cloud, and all was still again. He opened his eyes to blue skin and attentive gazes, and sighed. It looked like he would be stuck like this for a while yet.

What do you mean I'm keeping Loki in his Jötunn skin as long as possible because I love him in blue? XD

Spread the Luv!

LL