Loki wandered aimlessly through the Norwegian compound on Midgard, not sure where to go but definitely not wanting to "hang" with his brother and his mortal companions. Not that he'd been invited to do so. He could feel the antagonism radiating from Jane Foster; pale in comparison to the open hatred from Eric Selvig. Loki didn't have a need to beg their forgiveness, it wouldn't be given anyway, and worse, he couldn't even blame them. So to spare them all the awkwardness, he'd left them alone. He eventually found himself in a dimly lit hallway leading past empty rooms he assumed to be laboratories, the beige walls matching the beige carpeting which softened his footsteps. As he came to a dark room with a glass wall, Loki caught his reflection, slightly distorted. He looked like a lost spirit, tall and thin, with paper white skin and eyes like black holes in an expressionless face. It seemed appropriate.

Sighing heavily, he leaned his back against the glass and closed his eyes. He knew what he was here to do, and was grateful Odin had given him this modicum of freedom, however difficult the Midgardians were going to make it on him. He was under no illusions that any on this planet were relieved to see him, regardless of the threat they were under. Although mortals were a forgiving lot, probably due to the transitory nature of their short lives, Loki did not believe there was a way to remove the red from his ledger, to borrow the expression from the Black Widow, Agent Romanov. He wondered if, in fact, he would cause more harm with his presence than good, wondered if Thor had really thought this venture through. Perhaps it would be better to remain unseen, as forgotten as possible, until such time as he was needed in battle. Perhaps disappearing was the only kindness he had to offer.

Sighing again, Loki coulnd't help but laugh at himself, though he lacked any real mirth. How positivley maudlin he was lately. Though at times sullen, his natural inclination for mischief had always kept him entertaining, even if only to himself. His punishment on Asgard had been successful on so many levels; the breaking of his pride and the gagging of his mouth had turned his inner monologue into a ruthless introspective, capable of being downright depressing.

Just as he was pushing himself up to walk away, a small sound caught Loki's attention. He froze in place, tilting his head, listening. The hallway was quiet and dark, the muffled breathy sounds coming from the opposite side of the glass wall probably wouldn't have been noticable to anyone but him. Shrouding himself, he walked into the room, which was full of computer equipment and filing cabinets and rolling white boards covered with mathmatical equations. In the back corner were a couple of desks, one buried in messy piles of paper, the other neat to the point of appearing barren. Loki followed the sounds around the neat desk, remaining silent and hidden in the shadows of the room. A small figure was sitting on the floor behind the desk, huddled into itself, shaking as if terrified. Another sound, a sob, broke free from the figure, and Loki realized it must be the young woman who lived with and assisted Jane Foster, as there would be no other people in the compound at this hour of the night. He also realized that she shook not with terror but with sorrow, misery rolling off her in waves as she fought to control her emotions, her quiet crys sounding in his ears with a familiarity that raised chills along his skin. This girl was utterly heatbroken.

Uncomfortable, Loki turned to leave her, to let her suffer in solitude, when she leapt to her feet and began throwing awkward punches and barefoot kicks into the nearest filing cabinet, grunting and sobbing, out of control. Without thinking, Loki dropped his veil and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back, whispering urgently in her ear.

"Stop this. It will not help."

She struggled against him and he held her as gently as he could, not wanting her fight to cause bruises in the shape of his fingers. She wore herself out and slumped in his hands, then turned and fell against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, clinging to him as though he could save her very soul. As she wept openly into his chest, Loki was so surprised he couldn't react, couldn't resist, couldn't push her away or pull himself back. He stood there in her embrace, his hands hovering above her shoulders, struck stupid for the very first time in his life. Even though he was known as the God of Lies, the naked honesty of her tears, the open vulnerability of her pain, touched an un-named something in him that he hadn't thought survived the turmoil of the past years. His hands found themselves resting lightly on her back, fingers sliding through the ends of her long hair, arms accepting her need for comfort. And despite the twinge of guilt he felt because she didn't really know who was holding her, and would likely run screaming if she did, Loki also felt a release in his own pain, a loosening in the grip around his heart and an easing in his breath. Another deep sigh overtook him, washing away a bit of the tired hopelessness he'd been living in, and he held her.