He should never have spoken of giants.

Jerking upright in a tangle of sheets, the knife had already left his fingertips before he'd registered that he was alone in his room. Still, his eyes roved the shadows for any further demons that may have slipped from his dreams into the waking world.

Gritting his teeth, he hunched forward, placing his head in his hands. Why did his mind persist in tormenting him in his sleep? Sleep which this weak, mortal flesh required far more than he preferred. Had he been screaming? Norns, he hoped not. The shame of the Avengers finding him screaming like an infant.

Listening intently, Loki strained for the coming sound of feet. If the terror had escaped his dreams, surely the Avengers would have heard him—his room wasn't that secluded. The silence stretched on until Loki finally allowed himself to relax, shoulders slumping in relief.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his heart to stop racing within his chest and imagined the adrenaline evaporating from his skin and leaving behind only calm. He couldn't even remember what had plagued his nightmares. Just a sense of horror and cold. He swallowed, and a heavy scent of copper so thick he could still taste it.

He stiffened as his gaze slid down to his hand. The blood. He could see it, feel it coating his skin. The dream snapped into focus, images drilling into his mind even when he clenched his eyes against them. He remembered now.

He wished he didn't.

Book writhed in his grasp, frost spiderwebbing across his skin, eyes stretched wide with uncomprehending betrayal. And Loki laughed. Bared sharpened teeth in a feral smile as ice crawled up his forearm and crystalized into a blade of jagged frost.

Book kicked and sputtered, words unable to form past the fingers locked around his throat. Nails dug into Loki's forearm, pale scratches tearing across blue flesh. Veins burst around Book's eyes, peppering his skin with red speckles even as the whites of his eyes began to take on a reddish cast.

Red like the demon glow of Loki's own eyes. He raised his ice-encrusted hand and thrust it through the center of Book's chest, lifting him over his head on the icy pike. A hitching intake of breath. The boy's blood ran down his arm and splattered across Loki's upturned face as the child sputtered and gagged, his lungs filling. And still, in the pain and horror-struck depths of his eyes the question lurked—why? Why?

With an aimless flick of his arm, Loki slung the corpse onto the ice, shrugging it off as the ice-blade melted away. Horrified gasps drew his attention. All around him gathered blue bodies. Little ones clutched their mothers' legs in fear and the women clustered together. All of them looked at him with revulsion, disgust stamping their scarred features.

A guttural rumbling of sounds, words he couldn't understand whispered through the group. Insidious accusations. He couldn't understand them, but he knew exactly what they were saying. He could read it in the curl of a lip, the shock filled eyes, the sheer incomprehension of his actions.

He glanced back at the broken heap on the red smeared ice. Green and brown orbs had grown glassy, but they still asked the same question. Why?

A mad sneer cracked across Loki's face.

Why not?

Loki shook his head as if he could dislodge those starring eyes from his mind. Book was fine. They were on earth. Book was fine. Just in the other room. He was fine. He held his hand before his face. No blood. He would never hurt Book—he'd saved him.

Wouldn't you? The insidious thought slithered through his skull. Didn't you consider ways to dispose of his body? To make sure he wasn't in your way…not that long ago?

"Shut up," Loki growled to himself as he staggered into the bathroom and wrenched the faucet on. Icy water gushed out as he plunged his hands into the stream, splashing the biting water against his face. The shock of it pulled him further from the tangled, circling thoughts of nightmare. He licked moisture from his lips and ran damp hands over his rumpled hair.

"Is everything all right?"

Loki's hand was on another knife pulled from between realms even as he registered that the voice belonged to J.A.R.V.I.S.

Breath hissed through his teeth. "I wasn't talking to you, machine."

"I beg your pardon." The speakers clicked off with a huffy kind of finality.

Loki almost had the urge to apologize to Stark's infernal creation. Almost. He'd had nightmares before, but this…this felt too real. Fear clawed at the back of his mind that Book wasn't well. Irrational.

He was at the door even as he berated himself for such thoughts. The boy was fine.

But he needed to lay eyes on him.

Padding quietly down the halls, he listened for any other inhabitants. He could not bear their questions, their concern, their mockery. Even Thor. He strangled the small part of him that half hoped to turn the corner and find the Thunderer standing there. No, it was better that he avoided them all. He had no energy to prepare a face to meet their questions.

Book was all that mattered. Logically, he knew the boy was perfectly safe and sound. Knew it.

If only his mind could convince his racing heart of that fact.

He half held his breath as he eased open the door. Tucked into a little ball in the center of the bed, was Book. He was so still. Too still.

Loki's heart seized as his still terror-muddled mind took a moment too long to register the muted rhythm from the monitor or the subtle shift of blankets as the boy breathed. For a moment the doorframe was the only thing holding him upright as he latched onto it. Once he could hear anything again beyond the rushing of blood in his ears, he could actually make out the soft intake and exhale of breath coming from the bed.

Slowly his own breathing and heartrate calmed. Slipping into the room, he settled himself into a chair by the bed. As the fear drained away, a leaden exhaustion rose to take its place. Not sleep, he was too shaken for that. The mere thought of closing his eyes again and finding in the blackness more of what he experienced tonight made his stomach churn. Regardless, he couldn't have made it back to his chamber since every limb had gone weak and useless.

It didn't matter, though. He was perfectly content to sit by Book's side. To sit and watch the small form, counting each breath.

He quirked a sad smile as he noticed Book's street bag draped over the headboard. The Captain had grabbed it when he and Stark returned to Greenville to make sure there were no alien corpses lying around and to "spin" the narrative as Stark put it. Loki's own bag lay dejected in the closet. There was no need of it now and little in it he might miss when hauled back to Asgard's golden prison. A comb, his toothbrush, a battered water bottle, a pocket knife, socks with holes in them. All this for a prince of Asgard. Perhaps the only thing he might wish to keep would be the ragged library card that Book had managed to con Kayden into giving him.

Book's bag was different. It was practically a part of him and once it had been returned—after Banner had thoroughly sanitized it and its contents—he'd kept it by his side. A sure sign that he was becoming comfortable with the Avengers was when he finally started leaving the bag behind when he went to the great room or hovered at the edges of Stark's makeshift lab watching him and Banner bandy science back and forth at one another in a flurry of excitement. Loki swallowed—and now here was the bag again, not tossed in a chair or settled by the bedside, but draped right next to Book.

He ran his fingers over the roughly patched corner, Book's haphazard stitching lashing the cloth together. This sad little collection of items and cloth was safety, life. It had seen better days, but it would have to be completely falling apart for Book to part with it. Apparently Simeon had given it to him. Inside, it held all the essentials that Loki's did, plus a few extras—their phone for example. That had been the product of a particularly bountiful few months and key to their one day getting off the streets. It seemed Book had planned to eventually hire Loki out to some form of real job. Of course in his voiceless state it would have done Loki little good, so Book offered to be his secretary.

There were also a number of small mementoes nestled among the necessities. A photo of Simeon and the crew, a keychain with a rearing horse from Coon, a watch that needed a new band from a fellow foster kid, a laminated bookmark from Kayden with a list of great novels on it—that she expected him to read. A pack of cards, a pretty rock, some beads, a somewhat crushed origami wolf made from gum foil, three soda bottle lids, a shiny coin. All of them small, unimportant things.

There was one other thing in that bag. Loki knew; he'd seen it when Book emptied everything out to patch that hole. As the boy had focused on his work, tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth, Loki had noticed something new among Book's collection of treasures. A photo. A photo of the two of them. By that time he'd well known that he had earned—stolen—Book's trust, but he was still surprised to see the photo laid out with the other items. It was from some festival Book had dragged them to because there was free food—because of course Book knew where to find free food—and among the games and amusements there had been a kind of photo booth with ridiculous accessories and props—props that oddly included a number of mustaches on sticks. Unable to refuse without making a scene, Loki had allowed the boy to drag him over. Though they forwent anything ridiculous.

As he thought of the picture, Loki had to revise his assessment of his own items. He had a copy too—though it was more dog-eared. It currently marked his place in a novel from the library—a book he supposed he had now inadvertently stolen. Perhaps Thor might grant him the trivial request of taking the photo and library card with him.

By the time the earliest blush of light began to fill the room, Loki had shaken away the last vestiges of nightmare and its frigid cloak of terror. He couldn't shake the exhaustion or black mood that hung heavily about him. Thor's words and Barton's accusations churned in his thoughts. Even his dreams offered no refuge; at least these were mere jumbled images that left him with a sense of unease rather than any clear visions.

The troubling thought had also occurred to him that just like his voice, his shapeshifting had been returned to him as some kind of reward. The reason was even more hidden than the last. What had he done to warrant this reprieve? In what way could it possibly have played into Her plans?

He spent little time in his Aesir skin, instead finding the highest tree within sight of the house—it made his jailers nervous if he was out of sight for too long—and perching there with his thoughts. Sometimes as a hawk, sometimes an owl, and once as a large, tall-eared squirrel. He felt the wind and the sun and breathed the freedom of the chilling air as he watched the ever-changing mountains before him. Through it all, he thought. And worried.

Each time he had visited Book, the boy had been asleep, but Banner said that for all his sleep the boy never seemed to be rested. There was no human explanation for it. Without access to Asgard's libraries, Loki had no answers either.

The moon had long since risen by the time Loki wandered back to the house, carefully skirting the others as he made his way to his rooms. He was not in a gaming mood. Despite this he still found his steps leading toward the infirmary. He doubted the boy would be up at this hour, but he had yet to check on his progress today.

"You're a shapeshifter?!" blurted Book as Loki appeared in the doorway.

He leaned away from Book's eager stare. "Yes?" He couldn't quite keep the hint of a question from his voice as he raised his eyebrows.

"And you just thought it wasn't worth mentioning?" Exasperation seeped into his tone as he huffed. "Typical."

"And how did you come to this particular revelation?"

"I overheard Hawkeye telling Natasha that you full on wolfed out in the den the other day," Book paused, idly scrapping his thumbnail along the back of his hand as he ducked his head. "That's not a direct quote mind you. Clint had a whole string of…adjectives that I'm not allowed to use in there too."

"Allowed?" asked Loki with an incredulous look.

"Kayden."

"Ah, the dragon lady herself."

Book chucked an empty soda can at Loki, who snatched it idly out of the air. "Shut up, you like her. Anyways she said that anyone as smart as me shouldn't limit my vocabulary to the 'narrowed confines of the general masses'." Book quirked his fingers in air quotes.

"It is hard to argue with such eloquence," Loki said, "acidic though it may be."

"Still." Book gestured forcefully and leaned forward, rumpling the covers. "Shapeshifter! How's it work? Is it magic? Why didn't you do it before? Oh, so boss, be a dragon!" Book crawled to the edge of the bed.

Sliding into a chair, Loki held up his finger for silence. "The mechanics will hold for another time," he held up a second finger as he counted through his answers. "For me it is an innate gift though it can be accomplished with magic. My patron not only unraveled my magic, but she trapped me in my own body." He paused and shook his head slowly. "Really? A dragon was the first thing you think of for a demonstration? What if dragons do not exist?"

Book huffed and blew a dangling lock of black hair out of his face. "Please. How could they not be real? That and Thor told me about one you guys fought off once. Did you seriously tell it off while standing there in nothing but your pajamas?"

Of course he'd tell you that story. He glanced around the room. "This space is somewhat confined for a dragon, don't you think?"

Book gave a weak smile. "Maybe a little one?" he said as he pressed his hands together.

The weight of the last few days seemed to fade into the background. "If you will not be dissuaded." Loki got to his feet and focused on what it felt to be dragon. Magical creatures weren't inherently more difficult than mundane ones, but attempting to slide into the skin of a dragon while simultaneously shrinking in un-dragonlike ways was a bit like trying to feel both starving and full at the same time.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," shouted Book as he threw his hands over his face, stealing a glance between cracked fingers. "Don't be naked! Nobody needs to see that."

"What?"

"I've read geek forums. Your body changes sizes, but your clothes won't."

Amusement swirled through Loki's chest. "Both observant and accurate. But as I grew tired of perpetually finding myself indecent I developed a solution. Simple banishment and conjuration." Book stayed firmly behind his hands, the visible green eye suspicious. "Just watch."

Loki's core began to grow very warm. A molten greed and hoarding fire poured through him and the dragon nature inside snaked outwards to meet the growing dragonishness of his outside as scales ran along his limbs and wings erupted from between his shoulder blades. Though he could feel every little change spark through his body, Loki knew the change was smooth and quick as he slid from one form to another, seamlessly folding his clothes into a pocket between realms at the same time.

He flapped bronzed wings to hover in the air, reveling in the sinewed power of this new body. The bright gleam of the instruments stirred his dragon heart. Iridescent eyes blinked—he had forgotten how strong the dragon pull could be. He wondered briefly how many dragons were actually overconfident mages that lost themselves to the desires of the form.

A slow smile crept across Book's face as his eyes ranged over Loki's new form, drinking in the scales and claws and barbed tail. "Epic" he said with a long breath.

Indeed. A burst of fire flared forth in agreement. He'd always enjoyed this form, despite the distractions it posed. Whenever he spent too much time "in the scale," as Frigga called it, he had an itching need to hoard all that shone or sparkled. While his initial experiments had been impressively successful, there had been unexpected side effects. Such as constantly finding someone's jewels in his pocket that he'd unconsciously pilfered, or waking up on a bed of gold and jewelry he'd amassed. Everyone thought it was merely a new amusement for the younger prince—because by that point they'd just accepted that his brand of entertainment was unfortunately un-Asgardian. Only his mo-Frigga had watched him with a knowing glance and warning in the set of her mouth.

Beating his wings vigorously, Loki soared about the confines of the room, rolling and diving. He buzzed over the top of Book's head, causing the boy to duck and yelp. Smoke rose in puffs as Loki chuckled.

"Can I," Book asked hesitantly, as if almost embarrassed, "can I touch you? Would that be weird?"

Indeed, it would be weird—if he were his Asgardian self. He certainly wouldn't appreciate stroking then—or really being touched in any way. Somehow it was different when he shed his normal form for that of a beast. A fact his young cousin Freya had been most delighted about. He'd been less so when she decided that his fur would look better in shades of lavender than black and white. It had taken him three days to sort out the best way to fix her untrained attempts at magic. Freya's mother or Frigga could have helped him, but a young, mortified Loki would rather have taunted a Valkyrie than let anyone see him in such a pastel state.

Settling gently to the bed, Loki strode forward, presenting his neck so that Book could brush the glistening scales. Fingers skimmed along the tiny plates and curiously unfurled the folded wing. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant sensation. It sent his thoughts leaping backward to being a child at Frigga's side, pressed against her as she read to him, one hand absently stroking his hair.

A great yawn suddenly grasped Book. "You're warm," he murmured thickly. He kept having to press his eyelids open as he blinked slowly. "Stay for a bit."

Loki was in no way sentimental enough, and was already shaking his head no, so that he almost missed the words Book whispered into the pillow.

"Maybe then I won't die again."

His scales crawled. Is that why the boy regained his strength so slowly? His dreams offered him no rest? Loki cursed himself for not having studied blood magic as anything other than a curiosity. Was this the price? Death felt cheated and continued to circle, bleeding into the life of the one that was snatched from her? There were no outward signs of nightmares, the boy always seemed to sleep so peacefully.

Before Loki realized what he was doing, he felt his snout bobbing up and down in a nod. Book smiled and cuddled into the blankets, Loki perched atop his chest. The saccharin nature of it all made both Loki and the dragon want to curl their lips in disgust. He settled for a disgruntled puff of smoke and circled thrice into a tight ball, his shoulders hunched in embarrassment. Book's breathing quickly dropped into the even deepness of sleep, tension easing from his muscles.

A sudden click from the doorway brought Loki's head up.

"Oh yeah, that one's for the scrapbook," said Stark as he lounged against the doorway, a phone in his hand that Loki knew also contained a camera.

A burst of fire scorched through his fangs. If it weren't for the subtle shift beneath him, he would have launched off Book and sliced through that infernal piece of technology—possibly taking some of Stark's fingers with it. Accidentally of course. He wasn't sure how his oath felt about accidents. His slight shift in weight, however, had reverberated through Book, rippling the still waters of his sleep. He couldn't move. A fact of which Stark seemed to be well aware. Glowering, Loki rested his head once more on the bedclothes, comforting himself with visions of ripping open Stark's insufferable face with his tiny—but very sharp—teeth.

"That death glare would be a lot more impressive if, you know, you weren't the size of a pocket pet." Stark smiled to himself, obviously seeing his own version of the scene.

The dragon disliked being mocked—so did Loki, but he liked to think his reactions were slightly less melodramatic. I am fire! I am death! the dragon part of him seemed to hiss. You're also all of ten inches, Loki thought. Stark snapped a few more pictures, made more inane comments, and finally—mercifully—left.

Eventually the silence of a sleeping house crept along the corridors and into the room. For the Avengers this nighttime peace was a short one as some of them kept late hours while others beat the sun in rising. Even those short hours in between the last to sleep and the first to wake were rarely uninterrupted. As a general rule, Loki slept lightly and little—with the childhood fear of awakening to Thor in mid-launch above your bed, you learned to awaken at the slightest presence. So he knew that Romanov and Rogers often prowled the halls at night. Well, Romanov prowled—Rogers was normally trying to satiate that grossly enhanced metabolism of his. Loki flicked his scaly tail. He had the distinct feeling Romanov wouldn't walk the halls if he were not present.

And then there was Barton. It would seem the hawk rarely slept more than a few restless hours at a time. Then he too was cluttering the night with his wanderings. His jaunts were more rambling and agitated than Rogers's focused kitchen raids or Romanov's circumspect surveillance disguised as insomnia. He looked—unwell—and made it a point to avoid Romanov. Loki also knew that on more than one occasion his hawk had been outside his door in the loneliest stretches of the night. He also knew that there had been a knife.

Barton's presence brought a more troubling implication than being stabbed in one's sleep, however. The archer's return had disrupted the household's equilibrium. Loki didn't need the dragon's senses to feel the unease that stalked the halls, tightening its hold round each throat—a noose waiting to jerk tight. Barton was the scent of fire in a dry wood.

Loki felt Book's heartbeat thrum through his body. His instincts told him fire was coming—but he couldn't flee without Book.

Is this your doing, Lady? he asked the air. Barton reeks of your meddling. Giving a great, needle-toothed yawn, Loki settled himself more comfortably. Let Her try and set her fires with his hawk. He'd long since lost his fear of flames.

A/N: The nightmare bit was somewhat inspired by an incident from my childhood. I have a younger brother—whom I love, but who is a massive twit—and there was one time where we were particularly at one another's throats (as siblings do). And I had a dream. At least it started out as a dream, silly in the way of harmless dreams. But it ended with me watching my little brother burn to death before my very eyes and I couldn't do anything about it. It was horrific. There was even a graveyard scene after with his tombstone and rain clouds hanging low in the sky (my dreamscape is apparently very cinematic). Regardless, when I started awake in the middle of the night, I knew he was fine. He was right next door. He was fine. I still didn't feel easy again until I stood in his door and saw him sprawled out all over his bed. I remember standing there and thinking: "Okay, God. That was very subtle, I get the message."

Next Week: Loki finally realizes why Her eyes are so very, very familiar to him. And he's ready for some answers.

Silver Frost: Another Fullmetal Alchemist reference? *pshaw* Of course not! 😉 You're right about Loki's magic, though, it's kind of ill-defined. Which, on the one hand means that we're not exactly sure what he can and can't do, but it does open up for him to surprise us with new abilities (such as apparently dredging up memories from other people…I wonder if he learned that from the mind stone, seems like something it would also be able to do). Honestly, I would like to have seen a bit more magic from him, but I like that they didn't make him—or many of the other characters—too overpowered. Of course they're still ridiculously awesome and full of comicbook levels of power, but if they started out too powerful then you run into the issues the comics (and a lot of anime actually) have of the problem of villains having to be insanely over the top powerful for them to ever be a threat, or for characters to forget skills and powers they've used in the past in order to not immediately solve a problem. Or not go for an obvious use of an established power (ala not using Strange's portals to cut off Thanos's hand to get the gauntlet as had been established was possible earlier in the same movie…)

Wedgetail: Wow! Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. Made my day when I realized someone new had joined our little party!