The height of summer in Greenville was anything but green. The heat was a cruel master, driving clouds away and bending crops beneath its scorching. It sapped the color from everything and silvered the listless leaves with a hot wind that did nothing but steal what little moisture was left. Dark towers of clouds taunted the town nearly every afternoon with their rumbling promises, and the night cracked with veins of lightning crawling along the undersides of clouds. But rain hardly ever came. What little did only served to make the heat more oppressive. Perhaps there was no water in the ground or in the clouds because it was all in the air. The thick, soupy air clung to you, gluing the heat to your skin so that it weighed down every movement.

The misery of summer nearly broke Loki's charade. As the temperature climbed, the less he could be bothered with playing his role. He was simply too miserable to care what Book thought of him and had very little success reining in his bile. Loki had never been overly fond of summer or the heat—which perhaps now made more sense given his heritage—but never had he suffered as he did under the Midgardian sun. Muspelheim would have been balmy in comparison.

"I once knew this kid from Egypt," said Book as they trudged along the sidewalk. It was not yet mid-morning and already the heat radiated off the pavement. "Egypt! And he was complaining about how hot it was here. He came from a desert and thought it was hot here! I guess Egypt's a dry heat…whatever that means." The boy shoved their sole remaining water bottle at Loki.

The trickster curled his lip and arched his head away. The boy had been doing nothing but shoving tepid water at him for days on end. To stay hydrated. Their last trip to the library had mostly consisted of Book reading about dehydration, sun poisoning, hyperthermia, and other such things. This had been prompted by Loki receiving a particularly horrendous sunburn that left him nauseated and with a throbbing pain across his face, the back of his neck, and upper chest. He'd even somehow managed to burn through his shirt and across his shoulders—though to a lesser extent. The heat had radiated off the bright red that briefly flashed white if you touched it—not that Loki had let Book touch it more than once.

Sleep had eluded him as the constant throbbing and pulling of tightening skin had made it nearly impossible to rest, no matter how tired he became. The worst part of it all was that Book had warned him. And he hadn't listened. In all his years his pale complexion had never been a problem, but less than an hour under the sun and he found that his mortal form was extremely prone to what was known as a sunburn. The Midgardian sun attacked its own people! It was a lesson he would not soon forget. He was ultimately pleased that he had played his game well enough that Book strove to take care of him after the burn—even if his aid was heavily laden with "I told you so."

That had been some weeks ago and Loki was now mostly out of the peeling and itching stage, though there were still patches in the worst spots. And Book had become extra cautious, making sure both of them stayed out of the sun and slathered in sunscreen when they couldn't. "We're just asking for Melanoma down the line," he'd say. That was also why he kept forcing Loki to drink even when he wasn't thirsty. Apparently his ineptitude in dealing with one aspect of summer meant that he was prone to finding every danger the season had to offer—at least in Book's eyes.

Book sloshed the bottle at him. "Drink already. You've got to replace all the fluids you're losing."

Perhaps if I could actually sweat that would be a problem. He grudgingly snagged the bottle and took a long swig, nearly gagging. Stale, somewhat metallic water the temperature of blood. Not in the least quenching, and it tended to slosh unpleasantly in his stomach. If he actually lost any through sweat it may be necessary, but he had quickly found that in the town's humidity he managed only to flush alarmingly as if he were overheating.

At least here there was one aspect of summer that he didn't have to deal with. True Aesir might have dealt with the heat better than he did, but even they would eventually begin to find their traditional layers of armor too much. And when they began to peel off those extra layers to find relief—he remained nearly as covered up as always. Better the discomfort of too much armor than to allow more full comparison of his inadequacies with everyone else. He may have nearly matched Thor in height, but there the comparisons ended. Even Sif bore more physical resemblance to a warrior than he. Try though he might, he had never been able to gain the mass, leaving him naught but bone and the lean, stringy muscle of a coiled serpent.

"Two more stops and then I'm calling it a day." Book didn't look much better than Loki, all rumpled and wet with sweat. Hair plastered to his forehead. He shoved it out of the way. "Ew." He made a face and wiped the damp hand on his shorts.

True class. Loki scuffed his feet along the gravel strewn walk, kicking up little puffs of arid dirt. How he longed for the cool confines of the library—his stack of books and—relatively—quiet corner. But the excessive heat had proved too much for some key component of the library's cooling system. Attempts to open windows and place large fans throughout the space had only served to turn the still, stifling air into a desert wind. Even Book had given the place up as unbearable, though Kayden had still been holding her ground despite having stripped down to the bare minimum of acceptable clothing.

The drone of a car passing them drew Loki's attention. Nondescript, black SUV. Instinctively he searched for a SHIELD emblem, though he didn't know why he bothered. He doubted She wanted him falling into Midgardian hands any more than Asgardian ones. Perhaps Shield would not have their cells so wretchedly sweltering? The thought was far more tempting than it ought to have been. Loki snorted and shoved his hands into his pockets. Clearly his brain was beginning to cook inside his skull.

He blinked at the rather blurry image of Book balancing along the edge of the curb ahead. For an instant the boy's blurry shape teetered as he flung out an arm for balance. Loki strained to focus and the image snapped back to clarity. This does not bode well.

By the time they trudged back to the warehouse, he felt spectacularly ill. His mouth had dried out and he found it hard to swallow, nearly panting like an animal as he mechanically drug one foot in front of the other. Cramps clawed at his stomach, knotting cruelly. He thought Book might have been talking to him—he was always talking to him—but the haze in his brain made it difficult to catch the meaning. The unnerving thought that he ought to have been able to understand, whispered in his ear.

As he staggered down the cinderblock corridor, he trailed one hand along the wall. He wouldn't need the wall if everything else didn't sway so nauseatingly. It felt like Thor pounding on his head. Each beat of his heart threw his brain against the inside of his skull.

He didn't quite make it into the Pit before he suddenly found himself on the ground. He wasn't quite sure how he got there. Did the Bifrost drop him there? He felt more like he'd traveled by tesseract. He also might have been on fire—at least that's what it felt like.

The heat had burned its way into his flesh, like a hot coal sinking through snow. It nestled somewhere near his spine, radiating through his body. He was vaguely aware of wet cloths being draped across his forehead and neck. At some point he felt hands tugging at his sweat slick shirt. He grasped weakly at the fabric. Small hands firmly uncurled his fingers. They were too small, too smooth. Loki latched onto one, nails biting into flesh. There was something important about those hands. He blinked rapidly. Long pale fingers snaked around grimy, stubby ones. That wasn't right. He could hide the whole hand in his fist. Why were Thor's hands so small? Thor's hands had never been so small compared to his. It wasn't Thor.

But who else would be here, doing this. Only one other. There was a name for her—but he wasn't allowed to say it anymore. Why wasn't he allowed to say it? It didn't matter, there wasn't any laurel. The one he shouldn't remember smelled of laurel and her magic snapped like fireflies in whispering grasses. This was Thor. There weren't any others.

Loki couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the small fingers. They were jerking away now, twisting in his grasp as an even paler whiteness spread across his knuckles. Someone had done this, made Thor wrong. Made him small and weak. Rage leapt through Loki, curling about his windpipe as he began to shake. Someone would pay. There was sorcery here, about his brother—about him. Why was he burning?

There was a thought dancing at the edge of his vision, if he just concentrated hard enough he could gather up the shreds of mist that blocked his sight. Who would dare touch a son of…Loki's thoughts shunted away from another forbidden name. A son of Asgard.

He'd dare.

He would.

Had he done this, done—something? A tremor shook his body. He feared his brother. He'd done something. He'd broken Thor's favorite toy sword—he hadn't meant to. But Thor was angry with him. He'd shouted and screamed and told him he didn't have a brother. That he never wanted to see him again.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.

Loki gave a shuddering gasp. Thor's hand wasn't too small. It was just the way it ought to be. He was the one that was wrong. He threw away his brother's hand and held his own before his blurring vision. They were awful. Huge. The hands of a giant.

He gave a strangled moan and shoved himself backwards until he connected with something solid and could go no further. He couldn't get away. This body kept following him. He couldn't crawl out of that awful burning—freezing skin. Why was he shaking? Why was he in a giant's body? Why was he…He surged to his feet. Frost Giant. The blue crawling up his skin. He clenched his eyes shut. But he could still feel the red searing through. Monster. Jotun.

The world spun as he took a few staggering steps. Why were there coals in his bones and yet he was still shivering? Frost Giant. He would melt. This heat tore through him. He could feel his bones softening, the ice that was his heart dripping away. He'd melt, bones and carcass, nothing but a pool to wick away in the sun.

He was wrung out, completely drained. That was his first impression. His second was that he was being watched. Book sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty," he said with a grin. "You're gonna want something to drink." He unfolded himself from the chair and reached for a glass of water.

Loki blinked sluggishly and struggled to sit up. Why was he so weak? Book helped lever him up, holding the glass to his lips. Water had never tasted so good. Loki made a grab for it, but Book pulled it away before he could choke down the rest of it.

"Nope, not so fast. You'll flood out your system if you do that."

I'm thirsty, mortal! He made another weak grab for the glass, scowling as Book nimbly danced away.

"Glower all you want, I'm not giving you any more than the doc said." He settled on the short counter next to the bed. He fidgeted and stared across the room. "I thought you were going to up and die on me. The middle of a heat wave and you're cold as ice, shaking like it's twenty below." Chewing on his lip, he idly swirled the water in the glass, watching the vortex form. "You were out of your head. I dunno what you were seeing, but it wasn't good."

Hunching his shoulders, Loki glanced away.

"I think…I think you thought I was someone else."

Still refusing to meet his gaze, Loki shrugged. He noticed a strange bandage just below his elbow. He picked at the florescent pink wrap, surprised to find it somewhat rubbery. The tender flesh near the crook of his elbow ached as he flexed his arm.

"They had to put some IV fluids into you." A look of impish glee threatened to break out across the boy's face as he pointed to the audacious wrapping. "I thought the pink would go with your cheery disposition and great attitude lately."

Loki responded with mock delight before letting the expression drop away into annoyance. He looked around the room at the drab walls and cramped exam table. He gestured at the four walls and cocked an eyebrow.

"We're at the third street clinic."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. That was halfway across town. How?

"Carried you. Well, dragged is more accurate. And dude, could you be any taller? I practically had you folded double. It was like carrying a giant, boney, limp noodle." Book rubbed at his shoulder, "Did I mention boney?"

Loki was trying to do the math in his head. That Book had moved him at all was impressive, but all the way to the clinic? His surprise must have shown.

"Don't get too impressed. I only made it three blocks before I got some help the rest of the way here." Book gave an impish smile and pointed at a bandage around Loki's other forearm—this one sporting sparkly pastel unicorns. "And I might have dropped you once."

Loki blinked, studying Book thoughtfully. Why did you do all this you little ant?

Book scrunched his face in confusion. "Why did I drop you?"

Shaking his head, Loki gestured at the room.

"Why did I bring you here? You needed help." He handed the water glass to Loki, "Besides, we're like weird homeless roommates—we gotta stick together right?"

Taking a ginger sip, Loki held the glass between his hands, running a contemplative finger over the rim. The biting cynicism that ought to have cracked back against such an idea of fraternity never came. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but he felt a calm and clarity that hadn't been there since…since before he learned the truth. He remembered the sick, wild twist of his thoughts after that, impulse leading to action, leading to reaction, tumbling ultimately into the void. The glass in his hands groaned in warning as his fingers clenched tight. That had been no place for sane thoughts.

There had been no peace since as he struggled to keep his fraying mind his own, everything tinged with bitterness as his ideas sprinted away from him in terrified stampedes. But now he felt hollow, like a fire had rushed through the deadwood of his brain and a stiff wind had torn away the ash.

He glanced up at Book and offered him a small smile of thanks, giving a brief nod of his head. It was the first true smile of uncalculated sincerity he had offered the boy. Book returned it almost sheepishly.

Before long the doctor came to check on him, admonishing Loki for not taking more care in the heat. Loki let a mask of polite attentiveness slide across his face as the doctor listed precautions and common sense warnings that he was already well aware of and had been too stubborn to heed.

Even though his temperature had dropped and his hydration was better, they still didn't want to let him leave because now his temperature was too low. He had the distinct feeling that for him it was perfectly normal, but then he wasn't entirely sure what temperature a Frost Giant shoved into a mortal form should run. He imagined somewhat less than average for a mortal.

Eventually he staged an escape, slipping from the room and letting himself out a side door. Some of the sickly pale must have left him since Book didn't object to his jailbreak and merely followed along behind him.

The boy trotted at his side, trying to shove a smile away and failing miserably. Finally, Loki raised his eyes skywards and then looked at Book patronizingly. He raised an eyebrow and rocked his fist in a nodding motion. [Yes?]

"I told you you'd get heatstroke and die!" he chirped, giving a grin nearly too big for his face.

Your concern is truly touching. Loki touched a hand to his breast in mock emotion. [How long will you be holding this over my head?] His fingers flashed nimbly as he signed.

"How long you planning on staying with me?" Book laughed and darted ahead, calling over his shoulder, "Meet you back home—dinner's on me tonight."

Loki squinted after him. Had Book ever referred to the warehouse as home before?

The next few days passed relatively easily. Weakness still plagued Loki and he tired quickly. Despite his teasing, Book was always watching him, forcing him to drink, and scolding him for not sitting when he was standing, or lying down when he was sitting. It vaguely reminded Loki of a documentary they had watched at the library where a small earth fowl had ushered her chicks back and forth, chastising them when they strayed too far.

Even after he was fully recovered, Book watched him intently for signs of heatstroke. It didn't help that Loki's little mishap had pushed the boy to turn his research toward medical texts in order to better prevent further flair ups. Now every sniff or sign of flush was the precursor to some rare illness. And everything—everything—was probably a brain tumor.

They'd taken the long way back from the library that day. It lacked directness, but it was certainly more scenic than the maze of alleys and defunct railroad terminals they normally frequented. The main advantage was plentiful shade. Old, spreading trees arched over much of the street, their uppermost leaves reflecting the worst of the heat. And though it was merely bearable rather than torturous, Loki could tell a distinct difference in temperature as they stepped into the shade.

For much of the way, their path was bordered by a large creek that ducked in and out of sight beneath the road, spilling out of culverts and sweeping under bridges that really didn't have enough room for two cars to pass one another, much less pass without flattening pedestrians against the low guardrails. Thankfully this meant few chose to come this way and so Loki imagined the chance of his mortal existence being ended smashed between a motorist and the less than formidable barrier weren't particularly high.

"You look like you're overheating again. We'd better take a break," said Book as he dropped their bags onto the cracked pavement halfway across one of these too-narrow bridges.

I am perfectly well. Loki looked down his nose at Book.

"I'll worry if I want to. We're taking a break. Cause I learned something this last week."

Loki dabbed at his face with a clean bit of rag from his pocket. How not to carry someone twice your size?

Book scrunched his nose and glared. "That was something sarcastic, wasn't it?" He crouched down and started dragging a twig through the dust. "Well, in addition to being a prima-donna, you're suicidally stubborn. I mean really, cut off your nose to spite your face much?"

[Meaning what, exactly?] He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side.

Sighing, Book got to his feet. "My point being, you clearly need someone watching out for what's best for you. For example—" Book shot forward and shoved Loki hard.

An instant of surprise flashed across the Trickster's face as he fell backward, over the low guardrail, and into the creek below. Even with the lack of rain, the water was deep enough for him to go under in a great splash and be nowhere near hitting the bottom. He surfaced to the sound of laughter as his attacker leaned over the rail, grinning at him.

Instead of the rage Loki expected to boil up, he found amusement settling in. A memory of Thor once doing something similar floated to the surface. They'd been little more than boys, before he'd raced ahead of Thor with a rather terrifying growth spurt, and they'd often spent time playing tag or hide and seek in the vast palace gardens. This was when Thor was still willing to actually let Loki hide—eventually even he had figured out that the game was Loki's and if his brother didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. A brook meandered through much of the garden, and one day, as they were walking beside it, Thor suddenly snatched up his younger brother and tossed him bodily into the water. Thor's laughing had turned into a startled yelp as the water suddenly lifted from the streambed around Loki and dropped in a cascade on top of him. Frigga had been less than pleased at their state as they made their sodden way to the dinner table that night, giving dripping bows to the visiting nobles and their aghast young daughters that had come to dine with them. Loki had made a point of giving every courtesy with just enough force to fling water on their guests.

The remembering came with the heaviness of a fond memory overshadowed by future events, but none of the bitter hatred he had come to associate with all memories of his past. Odin's revelation and Thor's betrayal laced poison through even the happiest memories, casting them all in shadow. Where now was the pervasive hatred? Once more the image of dangling from the Bifrost, the void tearing at his feet, Thor at one end of Gungnir and he at the other.

And he let go. He, not Thor.

"Feel better?" asked Book.

He let go.

A shard of ice bloomed in his chest, shattering the glimmering of contentment. He had let go. Thor had clutched at him to the last, screaming after him. Loki raised his hand from the water, slowly turning his palm up. He remembered the strain in his arm, the feel of Gungnir in his grasp, humming with power.

A stab of pained laughter, more of a gasp, shook him. Liar.

"Loki?" An edge of concern crept into Book's voice.

He forced a nod, dragging himself out of the creek and up the bank, shoving his fraying emotions down beneath a mask of impassivity.

The boy looked worried as he reached to help pull him back onto the road. Like Thor had reached for him.

Loki nearly winced. Something shifted within him, things were sliding. He had let go. And he couldn't show it. He shoved his focus outward, away from the keening din of his own thoughts and the knifethrust of despair and panic shoved just beneath his ribcage. Look outward!

Book's stance betrayed uncertainty, arms crossing protectively over his body as he curled his toes within his shoes. He was afraid he'd done something wrong—afraid Loki would be mad at him.

"I'm sorry—that was dumb." He refused to look at Loki, "I was just playing around I didn't mean to…I'm sorry." He forced his gaze up, though his head was still lowered.

Loki wanted to spit against the rising bile. All hail the king. There in Book's eyes the last lock had turned and that final spark of innocent trust was his.

The boy was his. His to break, his to ruin.

There was no triumph here. He fought the urge to ball his fists. How the Norns mocked him, giving him exactly what he wanted when it had become detestable. A few weeks prior and Loki would have been filled with smug satisfaction at his ensnarement. His hand curled over his heart, as if he could stop the biting cold that spread through him.

A small hand closed about his forearm. "Loki?"

He flinched away from the touch. Book's frown deepened, worried suspicion sweeping across his eyes. Loki forced a smile. Keep it hidden! He berated himself for letting the turmoil of his inner landscape break through onto his face.

[I'm suddenly very tired—that's all,] he signed to Book. The boy's distrust was palpable. He pressed a finger to his lip and then rocked it forward as if pointing, [Really.] Loki made a show of ringing out the water from his shirt, watching as the drops darkened the pavement. Inclining his head, he motioned for Book to follow him. The boy hesitated. As it became clear Loki was going without him, he scooped up their bags and trotted after his much longer-legged friend.

The pair flashed in and out of shadow as the dappled light filtered through the trees. There was metaphor there somewhere, but Loki's mind shied away from it. It took everything in his power to keep his mind carefully blank, every stray thought bending back to the creature (not a creature) at his back or the black knowledge of his own self-deception.

The rest of the trip was made in silence. The instant they returned, Loki headed straight through the Pit toward the warehouse proper, pleading the need to be alone for a bit. His echoing steps took him through streams of dusty sunlight to the slanting back wall with its rusty, graffiti strewn door. Wrenching the door open, gritty red flakes ground against his palm. He stepped through into a long room with a bank of louvered windows running along one side. Glass and fire blackened debris littered the far end. Among the ash and charcoal, patches of spongy moss and little weedy curls of green forced their way through, feeding off the rain and sun that punctured the collapsed roof above.

A piece of glass crunched beneath his foot. Glancing down, Loki saw a somewhat sizeable shard. Hesitantly, he bent down and scooped it up, his fingers darkening with ash.

He had tried to kill himself.

His fingers tightened around the shard. He remembered his mad need to prove that he wasn't Juton—that his skin lied, that he was worthy of Asgard. Of Odin. That he was better even than Thor because he could kill the monsters. All of them. He'd killed the ones that came through the Bifrost—he'd killed Laufey. If Thor hadn't interfered that whole ice-blighted realm would have been dust. He'd failed.

But perhaps it could have been enough.

No, Loki. He cringed away from the memory, pain spiking through his hand. No, Loki. He'd never be Asgardian, he'd never prove to them that he wasn't what he was. No—he couldn't rid the realms of those hulking beasts. But there was still one monster left in Asgard. And that one he could kill.

Blood oozed through his fingers, its bright splash darkening in the ash.

He'd tried to kill himself.

Loki shuddered, curling into a ball as the memories crashed through the fever-charred wreckage of his mental barricades. Falling, waiting for the darkness, for the end. He'd crashed through Yggdrasil's branches, tearing himself apart, strewing pieces of consciousness across the nine realms.

And the void poured in through the rents. The horror of nothingness and all that didn't breathe the life of Yggdrasil ravaged the screaming pieces that remained. He didn't have words or thoughts beyond the unknowing comprehension of terror and pain—and yet he called out, he'd screamed across the measureless vastness of existence. He didn't even have names for who he was calling. There weren't words for them then, merely impressions of strong hands and a burst of red, a knowing smile and gentle voice. Shadowy, but still with the others, was a silent presence of strength and safety.

A tremor shook him as he gritted his teeth against the clarity of what was to come. Though he may have begged every power or perversion in the universe for reprieve, it was not to be granted. Slivers of the world tree sliced through his thoughts, burrowing deep and bearing with them visions not meant for any save the Norns themselves. Visions of the final days. The torment was not the scent of burning flesh, or the ash of existence—it had been his role in the horror to come.

He'd thrown himself into the void and yet he still hadn't managed to kill the monster. And what a monster the visions revealed. Those images crept through his jumbled thoughts as he floated in the nothingness, waiting for death. He'd wept when a strong presence gathered him back together, stitching the frayed edges of self into a twisted knotwork of scar tissue. Little wonder some things were lost to the madness of the plunge. He thought he'd begged the presence to kill him. But it had sighed and Loki had felt something like sorrow and pity surround him.

The next thing he knew, he'd been struggling back to selfness on some barren rock with the tender ministrations of the Chitauri and the Other.

The memories of what followed sent dread and rage whirling through him. Snarling, he surged to his feet and grabbed an empty crate. He hurled it against the wall. It shattered in a burst of dry wood. A sliver sliced open Loki's cheek as he caught up a large piece and slammed it into a window, grinning as it shattered. Again he swung at the next pane of glass, reveling in the cracking ring of shards pelting the ground and crunching underfoot.

Every pane was a Chitauri head, the Other being beaten bloody before him. Every strike a retaliation for the marks which hid deep beneath his skin and still ached with the strain.

He whirled on a sound behind him, board raised. Book didn't shrink back, a slight twisting of the head and tightening of the eyes the only ground he gave. His gaze moved from Loki to the shattered glass.

Blind, trusting fool, thought Loki as he looked at his prize. I do not want your faith. But he had played his game too well and now Book may as well have been another blue-eyed thrall. He slung the piece of wood viciously, sending it through a remaining pane and spearing into the darkness, the sun long since set.

He stalked away, not bothering to hide the anger coursing through him. When would the universe stop shifting around him? He ignored the worried gaze on his back.

The next few days he spent in a simmering rage, afraid of the force burning through his veins. It almost felt like it would burst from his chest, sometimes choking him with its strength. But he feared more what would come in its place.

Book reacted to his foul humor unexpectedly. He neither cowered, nor rebuked. He merely looked sad, and a bit resigned. One evening he finally spoke up as Loki brooded over the cooking fire—wishing desperately he could plunge his hands into it and set the whole place ablaze.

"You can hit me," Book said quietly, "if you want." He swallowed, his jaw tensing in an otherwise impassive face. He was stating a fact.

Loki twitched his head to the side, eyes narrowed shrewdly. Did the boy really believe that love and affection could be mixed with torrents of rage and showering blows? Loki peered deeper. No. Every word from the boy's mouth, every action, said otherwise. He knew what love should be, even if he'd only experienced it in brief snatches. No, his knowledge came from standing in the shadows, watching as that love was poured on others, hoping that some of it might accidentally fall on him too—if he could just get close enough. Book knew what true love was. But he'd accept this broken farce, pretending between beatings that the affection was real. Because that was all he could get. The scar above his eye showed just how far he'd let it go.

Sliding to his feet, Loki stalked slowly to loom over Book, features a distant mask. The boy looked back quietly. Loki's hand suddenly cracked across Book's face. Anger simmered in his green eyes. [What did that accomplish?] he asked.

Book stared at him, hand rising to his reddening cheek.

The feeble flames cast shifting shadows across them both as Loki bent over him, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flicked over Book's face, hunting keenly for something. His mask hardened further when he saw only acceptance beneath a tear-sheen.

Loki stalked across the pit, snatched up Book's sharpie and roughly gripped Book's wrist, jerking it toward him. With vicious, methodical strokes he inked the names into the pale flesh. He ignored the grimy layer of sweat and dirt that ground beneath his hand, or the marks he knew his fingers bit into the flesh between the slender wrist bones. He finished the final letter like a knife strike.

Book swallowed as Loki's touch gentled and he sighed. One longer finger tapped Simeon's name, slightly smudging the wet ink. Then Loki stepped back, fading into the darkness beyond the firelight.

When Book awoke the next morning, the wall was darkened with flowing, even lines of script. He traced his fingers over the neat lettering that held smooth even over the cinderblock. Every question was answered—some more fully than others. Hungrily, his eyes roved back and forth, jumping from one answer to the next, unable to settle anywhere for more than a moment before taking flight.

The woman I called my mother…weren't my family at all…explained everything about why Thor always earned favor while my skills were ignored…don't even know my true name…can't be trusted…a monster…parenting skills were sorely lacking…I want only what is my due…told him I loved him, and he believed me. I don't know if it was a lie.

On and on the words went. The ink flowed like life blood, stark against the white walls. Eventually, Book merely put his back to the wall and slid down it, chin on his knees. Thoughts raged within him. It was a long time before he stirred, merely sitting before the confession, small against its vastness. When he finally pulled away, the intense look of concentration remained curled across his brow and pulling his eyebrows together, one dimpling slightly deeper than the other.

There was truth on that wall, but he knew enough to guess that something still remained which Loki held back. A very important piece that would make the picture whole. He wasn't sure if it mattered.

That night Book crawled up on the roof and dropped down next to Loki. They hadn't seen one another since the night before. Book's cheek ached at the thought. Loki leaned back against an angle of the roof that stretched away into a ridge of skylights above the main portion of the warehouse. The side of the roof they were on looked out over the dead, darkened fringe of the city. Only a scattering of lights marked the night as this section of town hobbled out into the country. Behind them gleamed the healthy lines of streetlamps, stoplights, shop signs, and cozy homes. It might not have been what it was, but the town carried on.

Book pulled up his knees and rocked back, gazing at what stars still broke through the encroaching light. He didn't look at the silent figure next to him when he finally spoke. "You're seriously messed up."

Loki could only shrug. If you only knew the whole of it. He kicked out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle, folding his hands under his head.

"I mean, your issues have issues."

Loki quirked a smile into the darkness.

Book's voice came again, hesitantly. "Do you ever think you'll trust me enough to fill in the stuff you left out?"

The question surprised him. He hadn't supposed the boy could read between the lines of his fictionalized truth. How observant. He raised his pale hands from under his head to reply. [Doubtful.]

Idly knocking his toes together, Book continued to stare up into the hazy darkness. "Well, I'm patient." He rolled up so that he could peer more closely at Loki. "And you're not going anywhere, are you?" There was enough accusation in the tone that betrayed Book had guessed at Loki's impending flight before the summer had struck him down.

[Where do I have to go?] he asked, raising an eyebrow as he signed.

A/N: Large chunks of this were actually some of the first parts of this story that I wrote, since I don't always work in chronological order. And unfortunately to adequately build up to them, it was going to take a while, despite the fact that this chapter has some of my favorite parts in it, I didn't want to rush things. Realistically getting Loki to where he needs to be relationally and emotionally takes time if I want to make sure he doesn't become OOC.

This also addresses some of the discrepancies between Thor and The Avengers. Loki did let go, but in Avengers he accuses Thor of basically throwing him into the void—the error is never addressed, but if Loki really believed that, it would certainly help explain some of the changes in him between the two films.

And for those of you worried about Book…he lives! I mean, he's basically opened himself up to someone who on occasion is a bit of a homicidal maniac and likely to only shatter the trust the boy has given him…but he's breathing, so yay!