a/n - sorry about the delay on this one; was feeling out of it yesterday and missed posting the next chapter.
V.
He feels…. raw. A nerve left exposed to ice and wind, salted regularly to keep things painful.
Everything. He feels everything.
The worst-second worst, if he's honest-are the smells. Even in Tuscany, hidden in the countryside, he can't escape how sensitive his nose is. It's harder, now, everyone's always said omegas have the sharpest noses, but he's never believed it.
(Bruce says, when he complains in an email, that he'll get used to it. Bruce left off the 'probably' caused by how little they know about what his decade delayed heats will do-of course he did. Optimistic.
Loki doesn't have any optimism left to give.)
The worst are the heats-if the new normal is emotional rawness, heats still (somehow) manage to be more.
He tried heat suppressants, over the counter mild things, as soon as he got to Tuscany and the safety of no one knowing to keep them away; his body revolted, sensation refused to return to its box, and he spent half the day vomiting and dry heaving before the stress sparked another fire in his veins.
(Three days, that time.)
Stress-help and protect, nothing like hormones to make sure some big strong alpha or alpha-leaning beta will want to fuck him senseless. Sex for protection.
Loki loathes it. He's managed quite well on his own, and this feel like helplessness. Funny how his heart condition didn't feel as much a burden despite the carefully attended diet and lifestyle.
(But worse than having heats is how unpredictable they are, and the knowledge that nearly a decade suppressed means they always will be.
He doesn't let himself think about it, which is why smells are only second worst, not third.)
Loki can't bear whatever stilted conversation will be waiting with Tony, and so doesn't bother contacting him.
(More, can't bear the thought perhaps there won't be one, that Tony will proceed as if nothing has changed when in truth the world has turned inside out.)
He proves he's alive and fakes being well, when he can (when another heat hasn't left him sprawled on the floor, shaking too much to do much more than crawl). Takes day trips and buys things on Tony's credit card he shouldn't still have-postcards and art replicas for Steve, handmade tea sets for Bruce, shoes for Pepper, entire wardrobes for Natasha, photography equipment for Clint, small batch craft beers for Rhodey.
For Tony, he buys non-SI tech (a running joke), but he never manages to send it back. It feels too much like an admission, and he has no idea what he would be admitting to.
A week after the second spending spree, there's a knock at the house he's renting. Loki freezes, caught, nevermind no one can see where he's pressed his face into his towel, absorbed in the smell of his shampoo because it takes his mind off how hot he is, cucumber and mint better than the warm damp between his thighs that promises the next few days will be a blur.
(Two weeks and three days since his last heat, but they're starting to get farther apart. Finally. If Bruce had been wrong about this-)
It's a delivery. They're standing outside, waiting, so it needs to be signed for. The office will hold it three days, but he's still not figured out the rhythm of his heats, and three days might see him still lost.
Better the beginning, now, then the end, exhausted; some day he's going to have to deal with people while like this and best to get it done with.
(What if-his body has betrayed him so many ways, already-he aches, he wants so much like this-what if—)
He draws his robe closer, drapes the towel around his neck, and answers the door before they can leave.
"Delivery for Loki Bors…" The delivery person looks up, nose flaring (they present as a Conti on the name badge). Loki locks up, staring at her (she's nearly eye level, she's broader than him, dark eyes and dark hair), he can smell her (lemon, clean, alpha) and he aches, this was a terrible idea and he can't quite remember why, watches as she swallows.
(He should step back, he wants-brown eyes, glinted with amber, like—)
"Delivery," she says. She's got a flat mailer-a letter, contract, something ridiculous, Tony likely-Tony.
He clears his throat. It's not half as effective as he wants, his tongue is still slow, tarnished, he's still gone from half to full-blown arousal, but he snags the mailer from her.
"You need to sign for it," she says carefully.
"Right." He can't quite look away from her. Her eyes-her eyes are lovely, all ambers and golds, deep browns, eyes that look like a home he hasn't had would feel (if he let it), he dreams of the colour, falling in it, curling up in it, safe, he wants—
She touches his arm; his heart jolts, rabbit fear, and in the next moment he has her pressed to the door frame and her arm pinned behind her, twisted so if she moves too much she'll dislocate her shoulder (like Natasha taught), instinctive and panicked. He shakes; he barely remembers moving.
(Confused, because everything in him aches for someone between his thighs, and yet—)
She's talking-apologies, as he manages to slow his breathing enough to hear again.
He steps away, lets go, cheeks and tips of his ears flaming with embarrassment instead of arousal (this time). He feels awkward, like when he was first growing into his height (isn't he doing the same now?), still shamefully hard and wet, but she smiles at him, one hand up, other with the packaging tracker she needs him to sign.
"I just need you to sign," she says again. "You weren't listening, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."
"I didn't-I—" Loki closes his mouth, takes the stylus and quickly signs his name. "I'm sorry."
"It happens." She smiles again. She bends down, picks the mailer Loki dropped up, and offers it to him. "Have a good day."
When he's halfway through a bottle of wine, valiantly ignoring his body, he thinks to open the mailer.
It's a credit card.
Specifically, it's a credit card with both his and Tony's name on it.
(Rationally, he knows that this will avoid awkward questions about why he has Stark's credit card.)
He can't finish the rest of the bottle fast enough as low flame turns to absolute fire; he stumbles back to the kitchen for a second. It's most of a day before he wakes up hungover on the bedroom floor, covered in slick and come, vibrators and assorted toys shoved into a pile by the foot of the bed.
(Wakes up utterly content, languid. Not like he's only delayed the inevitable.)
Now that he can think clearly, he realizes he didn't spread his legs for the first alpha he saw while in heat. Actually pushed away when touched-perhaps extremely, but he did, and no one was hurt. Natasha might even be proud she'd drilled the move in enough that he did it on instinct. Something to tell her. He's almost willing to smile.
(Not the same as he was, but…)
Then he finds his phone.
Naturally the first thing he should do on discovering he'd sent a string of drunken, heat-induced pictures to Ton-Stark of the various vibrators he's acquired since he left is call Thor.
(inquiring how it compared to-he wants to die, he's never wanted to simply vanish so much in his entire life-it seems even his mortification will be magnified tenfold)
(worst-what his contentment and short heat implies—)
"'lo," Thor mumbles.
"How did you know?" Loki demands, voice low and rough, cracking, because Thor will know. He can't see clearly, he's blinking back tears-fucking hormones, but he hears it in Tony's voice, the way Tony growls it, and a hysterical sob hitches his throat.
(He's ruined, he's not supposed to feel this much, how do people live like this)
"Loki?" Thor says.
Loki blinks, realizes he hasn't spoken to Thor in years. An argument he barely remembers, reasoning burned away with everything else he used to know about himself.
Loki hangs up.
Thor calls back.
"Loki," Thor says when Loki answers. "Loki," Thor says, desperate, "Loki, how did I know what?"
"How—" his voice breaks.
(Voice admits possibility.)
He sits down by the back bay windows and pulls his knees to his chest. He's going to cry. He's fully grown, and he's going to cry over an alpha to his brother. Like every trashy teen novel he's ever read.
(Every trashy teen novel he's never understood.)
Even shaming himself isn't working.
"Brother," Thor says. Pleads.
Loki doesn't say anything. He should ask. It would make sense, it's why he called, Thor would know the answer-just like he always used to when Loki was so much younger. Thor's had his people since… forever, it feels. Sif and Jane, the people they brought with them.
(It was always Loki who didn't belong; it's never mattered before.)
"Brother," Thor near whispers, "what happened? I saw on the news when you were shot but…"
He should hang up again-neither of these topics are ones he wants to discuss, neither will let him claw his way back to some semblance of control.
Most of all, he shouldn't tell Thor… anything. He hasn't spoken to him in years.
(He's so… frightened. Sick and angry and overwhelmed. He feels… everything.)
"I…." He trails off. "It's late, there, isn't it? Go back to bed. It's nothing." He laughs. "I shouldn't have called."
"Tell me," Thor says.
(Stable. Bedrock. Thor.)
Loki starts talking.
"You're going to call me sentimental," Thor says when Loki finally finishes, when Loki finally asks how did you know you belonged with them.
"When do I not?" He's a little hoarse now, but at least he's stopped crying. By the time he got to telling Thor about the texts that inspired his… panic, they both were laughing. He's still horrified, of course he is, but it… hurts less. To hear Thor laugh-Thor has always laughed with him, always waited for Loki to laugh first.
(Even emotional, he can notice these things. Another self-truth that hasn't changed.)
Thor chuckles.
"True. But you will."
"It can't be any worse than-than—"
"The Stark fiasco of '13," Thor suggests.
"How uncreative."
"Then you think of something better! Now let me finish, I'm going to answer you." Thor pauses, takes a breath. "I just… I knew. I think everyone does. I read about this-research papers, journals, don't act shocked. No one knows, really, but people are good at finding-At ending up where they need to be."
"You're right, this is horribly sentimental. I thought you didn't believe in fate."
"I don't! But I think people know. I think it's easier, after the hormones kick in, but even people who never have that manage to end up with a pack. Did you know that? One percent of the population never registers as omega, beta, or alpha, but every study finds that they've found people they belong with-even if they don't get the dynamics, even if it's usually later than everyone else. They've all got people. I think people see the people they need, they get to them, and…"
"And?"
"And they're there. They just… fit."
"That's-the Avengers didn't just fit, Thor."
"You cannot tell me that the original Avengers included an archer and a super spy babe."
"Her name is Natasha," Loki says, icy.
"See? That's my point, though. Sometimes stuffs got to happen, but I've seen footage of them fighting, at press conferences. They fit, Loki, everyone can see it. The right people had the right things happen, and they got where they belong."
"Why do you know all this?" Loki asks.
"You," Thor says. "I wanted to know you'd find people, because you stopped fitting with me."
"I—" Loki swallows what threatens to be more tears. "I never fit with you, Thor."
"You did once. When we were little. You weren't ever the same after—" Thor pauses. "Do you want me there when you talk to them?"
"What?"
"Our parents. You are going to ask them, aren't you?"
Loki opens his mouth, stops.
"I don't know," he admits, quietly. "I haven't… Thor, I can barely make it through a week without getting blindingly angry anymore. I'd give someone a heart attack."
"If you want me there—"
"Yes, yes, you'll be there. Sentimental dog."
"If you don't want to ask them—"
"Thor," Loki says, exasperation slipping through. He expects an argument-wouldn't they always argue about what Loki wouldn't do?-but Thor only goes quiet, near thoughtful. "Thor, don't hurt yourself thinking, I can hear it from here."
"The phone is right next to my head."
"So it is," Loki says. "I'm surprised you caught that so quickly."
He doesn't call Frigga or Odin, though he considers it after his conversation with Thor.
(Right until he throws a glass against the wall.)
He wants to know why. He needs to know, but they've both taken so much already, built him into a pyre that will burn all the better for their work.
He won't give them the benefit of his hurt or his anger. They never wanted it anyway, did they?
Holding his head in hands, he smirks, slightly. Consider your heart-it's what his mother would say, when his temper would flare before. He wonders what she'd say now.
At twenty-three and a half, he watches the Avengers stop Von Doom.
This time, he holds his breath.
This time, Steve has to sling Tony's arm over his shoulders, half-carrying him back.
He sits, curled up on the couch, a white knuckled grip on one of the throw pillows. He takes a breath. A second. A third.
He thinks it might be time for a change.
It would be awfully nice, wouldn't it?)
is short for Signora, which is why Loki knows the delivery person prefers female pronouns
Thor's roughly 9 hours behind Loki right now in time zones. It's 3 am for Thor when Loki calls.
We'll see that 'fit' thing brought up again. I just wanted to point out it's part the how people talk about packs, and it is not inherently romantic.
(And yes. While our world is very much not the one I'm writing, I do believe everything Thor says about us finding the people we need, the people we fit with. Maybe it's chance, maybe it takes longer, but I sincerely believe that the internet has made it easier than ever to find the people that better us, that we understand and who understand us. Writing his speech to Loki was one of the most sincere things I wrote this entire story-I've seen too much and had too many people at just the right place and just the right time that have kept me holding on, who have been exactly what I needed right then, to not.
Which isn't to say I'm not finding a pattern where there's none, because I believe more in random chance than fate, but just...
It would be awfully nice, wouldn't it?)