The Jeep Driver
By Rey

Just after visiting his SHIELD-incarcerated brother on Midgard, the newly appointed Regent King Loki literally stumbles on a huge, old jeep, warn and dusty but well cared for. It isn't the jeep that intrigues him, though, but its driver. And, just like all other things that make him curious throughout the centuries, he pursues this interest.

Can he go home from this adventure? Will he? Where is "home," anyway?

Story tags: Canon Divergence - Thor (2011), Loki Does What He Wants, Uncomfortable Loki, Loki-centric, POV Loki (Marvel), Secret Identity, hidden identity, Unexpected Help, Jeeps, Miðgarðr | Midgard, Hot Weather, Overheating, Overstimulation, Vomiting, Internalised Racism, Vehicles, Internalised sexism, Age Difference, Age Regression/de-Aging, Confusions abound

Author's notes: Just wanted to say, this is not a "human" or "modern-day" AU. Just a gapfiller in Thor 1 that quickly turns off the beaten path. Also, apparently the muse wanted this drawn out, so you are going to be treated to 3 chapters, or at least it's what I have planned for this by the end of the first part. (I hope not more than that, but I don't have a good record of beating the ever-tiranical muse.) And, given the future fluidity of changes between environments, topics, etc, the story tags will keep being added as we go along.

Part 1: The Stranger

The first thing that Loki is always aware of in this tiny, dusty, pathetic Midgardian village is the heat. Right after he came out of the nearest hidden path leading here, during his torturous walk across the village in search of his brother, and now that he is back out again. This damned heat was even present as he traversed the narrow halls of the flimsy building that somehow surrounds Mjolnir, as he was forced to interact with the organisation that turned out to have held and will still hold his brother for an indefinite amount of time, and as he spoke with the said brother himself.

The second thing that also greets him overenthusiastically here is the light. It is more blinding than the one shining on most of Asgard, on par with the sunlight glancing off of the golden walls there. And the overabundance of light here only makes the heat seem all the more potant.

Added to his barely adjusted seiðr, after the temporary bond with Gungnir as the Regent King and his hidden travel to this backwater settlement on this backwater planet, he feels like he is melting inside.

He keeps a composed surface bearing despite everything, but it seems to be worth nothing at present. Sweat runs down all over him, creating itchy dampness everywhere on his skin and under his hair. Moreover, the patches that the sun burns mercilessly also sting and throb horribly, as though his skin had been in the process of being pealed away from his flesh. And his sight wavers alarmingly in tandem with the giant heart throbbing inside of his skull, to boot.

And then, he bumps against a vertical, darkly coloured, curiously shaped surface of heated metal.

He falls on his butt on the dirty, dusty, man-made ground with a yelp, after flailing and staggering to keep his balance without avail.

There goes his dignity… along with his melting internal organs… including his brain….

Actually, maybe, that last point could explain why he does not even attempt to get up to his knees, if not his feet, as soon as his bottom touches the burning whatever-it-is that was previously under his boots.

He does not even react, at first, when a hand – a cool, cool hand – lands on his shoulder. But then the said hand – blissfully cool, gentle to boot – is joined by another, and, together, the pair hoist him up to his feet by his armpits. The forced movement, if almost tender for a stranger, in turn forces him to refocus himself on his environment, however overwhelming. And slowly, slowly, slowly, thoughts begin to trickle back into his melty brain.

The first impression that registers in his mind is that he feels really, really like a child, now. It is… ironic: Asgard's king, for however short a time and despite however undeserving he is to bear such title, being held up by his armpits. Powerless like a rabbit in an eagle's talon. Not even deserving of being a jötun, since those beasts are supposed to be awefully powerful, if mindless and brutish.

But then again, he is a weakling runt among those beasts, is he not? It is why he was abandoned, is it not?

Well, he is going to show them all, even his father – no, King Odin. `I am not a weakling!`

His churning, muddled brain still pounds heartily in his head, in tandem with the pounding of his heart, the heaving of his chest, the throbbing of his sunburnt skin, the roiling of his seiðr and the wavering dance of his vision. His legs can barely support him, at that, feeling like a pair of particularly noodly sticks of cheese. But it should not be a reason – there should not be any reason for him to show weakness to anybody.

So he does his best to straighten up his legs, then his back, with the cool, cool hands that somehow still support him as the focusing point. And then he looks up to gauge who has helped him…

…And up, and up, and up, before he meets the stranger's eyes. Bright yellowish green. So much like his. In shape, in size, almost in colour… and definitely in intensity.

And people who have been working closely with both him and King Odin often notes how similar they are when coolly, silently and impassively judging someone, just like this.

On that thought, for the second time in what feels like just as many moments, Loki's mind melts into an uncomprehending puddle, which is soon populated by questions swimming frantically but aimlessly here and there.

`Why does this stranger look like me? How can I look like Fath… – Odin – if I am only his adopted son? How can this stranger look like Odin, for that matter? Why do I have to look so far up? Have I shrunk in this heat? I am considered tall for my age! How do I explain this to Mother and the Court, then? What does this stranger want with me? Why are they still holding me up? Who is this stranger? Do they know who I am? Why are their hands cool? How can I escape them? How can I return home in this condition? Do I want to? Such cool hands…. Does this stranger mean harm to me or Asgard? How can I defend myself with me being this pathetic? What should I say? How can I work my seiðr to go home? Am I trapped here? Who tends the throne without me – no, without Gungnir? Mother? But without Gungnir…? Can I ask this stranger for a glass of something cool? Dare I? Will they want something from me in return? Will I be able to comply without jeopardising myself and Asgard?`

Any of those questions could be uttered, or even all of them, or even more of the same garble. However, once the beleaguered regent-king-by-reluctant-elimination feels more solid once more, once the muscles on his jaw loosen a little, and once his throat unclogs, he ends up just staring helplessly at his equally silent counterpart, anyway.

Fortunately… or not… the said counterpart is the one who speaks, at last: "What is your name, child?"

`Name….` "I am…." `Unmanly trickster. Cowardly silvertongue. Green-shoot upstart. This stranger even agrees that I am a child. But I am–` "–Not a child."

"I did not expect, indeed, that your name would be 'Child'," is the infuriating, infuriatingly calm return. "However, I do need your name in order to help you further, child. And if you–" a light squeeze on Loki's ribs under the armpits, perhaps to forestall the rebuttal that is ready to be launched out of his gaping mouth "–do not give me your identity, I will have to call you 'child' until you do."

In the expectant pause that ensues, Loki gives the stranger a disbelieving look. "I thank you for your assistance," he says lowly, stiffly, at length, although with only a quarter of his usual smoothness and finesse; slurring a little, to boot. "However, I am not a missing toddler to be returned to his family. I was here on a personal errand, and I am ready to go home presently. I would be grateful if you would not speak of this… incident… to anyone, but that would be all the further assistance I would need from you. I… was just unprepared for the weather. Nobody needs to know about this. Perhaps I could help you in return, with something that I could do but would not jeopardise either myself or others?"

He stops speaking when the stranger's eyes, formerly impassive but calm, darkens with a storm of emotions that makes him almost take a literal step back.

He does take a mental step back, instinctively. And the stranger knows, somehow, for the storm in those all-too-similar eyes turns more vicious for a while, before it collapses completely into their prior unreadability, minus the light that seemed to shine deep within.

And then they say, in a calm, level tone that feels so much – too much – like Odin's when the latter is concealing a great emotion, usually fury after a disastrous outcome of his children's – no, his child's and Loki's – so-called adventures, "Then I request that you keep me company for the next few days, until I know for certain that the weather will not impact you unduely as you return home." And, before Loki can interrupt to point out that this can never be categorised as returned favour from any angle and in any situation, they continue, "This will free me from wondering if the stranger I once assisted has returned home safely, in the coming weeks, months and years. I also happen to need a second opinion on a few matters, as well as a second pair of hands. We can settle for further payment should we agree that your assistance exceed what I may require you to perform."

There are too many hidden meanings in those words. There are too many new questions springing from those statements. And Loki's mind, sadly, is not yet recovered enough to handle such. The sudden appearance of the sheer formality and the negotiation itself stands out, though, and….

"I…. My apologies. My family will be looking for me soon. I need to return home presently, or they will be unnecessarily worried." `Deflect. Deny. Lie. Buy time. – I cannot think while still in this condition.` "Can we … later?" `Wait. What did I say? I cannot think! I must recover somewhere safe, before stepping any closer to the Pathways.`

He blinks his eyes rapidly to try to get his eyes into focus, despite the overbright light that stabs mercilessly into them. The light colour of the stranger's clothing makes the illumination hurt even more, though, and it is the only thing that his eyes see right now. So he tries to sidestep, to focus his eyes instead on whatever it was that sent him sprawling on the ground just now, which was dark and did not reflect the sunlight.

He stumbles, again, and would fall back down if the stranger's arms were not still holding him up.

Unfortunately, the stranger seems to view this temporary weakness as evidence that he cannot be trusted with his own words… not that people trust his words much… at least in Asgard… at least for the upper tiers….

`Wha…? What? What did they say? What did I say? – Hey! Where am I?`

Loki blinks again, then keeps his eyes wide, although his vision is somehow blurrier than before: darker and unfocused. – Everything has changed! He is now seated somewhere, held down in an upright position to the seat by the lap and partially across the chest by… wide lengths of rope? And a blessedly cool air is blowing all round him.

Well, it is actually the cool air – or rather, the stark difference of temperatures – that defeats his composure, this time, by inciting him to heave up the contents of his stomach, so he has to rethink the "blessedness" of his new environment. It is mortifyingly humiliating, after all, to be taken care of like a sick child: having his mouth wiped with a cool, damp cloth, being prompted to rince the taste of bile and half-digested food off his tongue, and all done by the stranger; through a soft, coaxing voice that does not hurt his ears or overwhelm his mind, at that, and equally soft touches that do not make his body rebel more.

Like a mother.

`I miss Mother,` he thinks, fuzzily, before a faint, soft strain of peaceful melodies drifts into his mind and sends him into blissful oblivion.