I Would Fly

-XXX-

When he wakes, it's with Tatiana against his back, curled into him. He can feel her hands, clenched, in the middle of his back. Stretching, the god sits up. He examines himself briefly. He hadn't really consciously gone to bed. He feels the cut upon the taut skin of his cheek, wincing. It is sticky, tacky with crusted blood, and stings with even the slightest pressure.. Looking to the pillow, he finds brown-rust stains. With a few murmured words and the twist of his clever fingers, a shock of cold comes over that particular side of his face. He can feel cells regenerating at a rapid pace, and breaths in slowly as the flesh knits together again. There would be a slight scar if he did not soon apply salve. "But perhaps another mark would not be so terrible." He has been battle-marked before. It is a hazard of being Prince Thor's brother. On the bed, Tatiana curls into herself, murmuring. He bends to brush back a few locks of her dark hair. She shivers, missing the extra body heat. Loki grins.

"Oh, Tatiana…if you don't rise soon, I shall be forced to order breakfast by myself…and the gods know I shan't be ordering coffee…."

The tease is light, gentle. Similar to the kind his parents shared. One he'd never dared to do if she were fully awake. The girl's constant need for caffeine is just short of crippling.

This has the intended effect. Deror unfurls, a flower in dawn light, her arms straining for a long moment before her eyes snap open, autumn orbs alert. With one arm supporting her, she props herself up against the pillows. In the morning's glare, her hair is a bronze, shiny like a new statue. Mouth parted, she takes in the scene.

"She's forgotten," he observes. "In her sleep, what happened."

"I need coffee," she stresses, looking up at the ceiling. "Else I'll be stuck in this enormously comfortable bed all day. Which would be a pity, seeing as you're got a helluva lot of explaining to do."

He rolls his eyes, and merrily makes with ruffling her hair. "You being in my bed all day is not such a bad thing," he muses wickedly. "Though, you're right. We have quite a lot to discuss."

Tatiana pouts. Pushing away his hands, she says, "Coffee. Before I fall back asleep.

He obliges her, leaving the room to find the rarely-used kitchen (he is no cook, and the city offers so many dining options it seemed foolish to stay in every night). Several minutes later, he returns bearing pastries and the requested coffee. Tati drains half the mug before speaking again properly.

"Where am I?"

He looks up briefly from buttering a croissant. "My house."

Eye brow rise. "Your house? You have a house?"

"Well, there is no deed or land title in my name, but yes. I have a house," he replies, slightly defensive.

"And where," Tatiana asks, stirring her coffee pensively. "Would this house be?"

At this, the god grins. "My clever girl. Stubborn as Hel." He takes a long moment to savor his pastry before answering. "Oh, somewhere East. Nowhere near your home."

Her nostrils flare. Glee rises in him. He doesn't so much enjoy making his human mad as he does watching her furious banter, and debating her playfully.

"New York," Loki finally says, disappointed to watch the steam dissipate. "In the city."

She looks mildly surprised. "Why New York? Seems a little…cosmopolitan for you. And I would've picture London, or someplace European. Home of your…people."

Loki snorts lightly. "They might worship us, my dear, but they were never my people. You Midgardians are your own lot."

"Midgardians," she says slowly. "And what would that make you?"

Hesitation before he replies. "Jotun."

"Oh." Again, surprise. "What is…Jotun?"

"People of the ice world," he says briefly. She means to inquire further, but he cuts her short. "You're not eating, my dear."

Scowling magnificently, Tatiana bites savagely into a Danish. Her partner smiles slyly.

-XXX-

He dismisses my questions.

Angry, I toss clothes and other things at him-incidentally, I'm dressing for the morning. If they're not caught, he deflects them (much as he did the pillows last night). But occasionally a lucky shot will make it through.

There is a fair selection of clothing for me in the closet, among an odd array of suits and medieval garb. I select a pair of tastefully worn jeans and a loose cotton blouse, scooping my hair up for a messy bun. When I emerge, the god looks me over keenly. He appears to approve- - - not that I need, nor care for his approval.

In the bright morning light, I can finally look him over properly. He's paler, several shades different from three months ago. His mouth is a tighter line, and there are crevasses branching out from the corners of those ice-coloured eyes. Not deep ones. But neither are they the result of merriment or laughter. Stress has marked him. Whatever has he been up to, besides terrorizing SHIELD with his AWOL status?

I am reminded of the covert organization with a twinge. They said contact them as soon as I received word. However, there isn't a phone in sight. And I don't feel too obliged to comply to their whims, especially following the whole kidnapping thing. Not, I recall, that Loki has done much better in my book.

"What have you been doing?" I try again. "And why are you in New York?"

"Big city," he says shortly. "Easy to get lost in."

My first question is ignored. I try another. "So…why am I here? Three months of silence, and all the sudden you pick me up again?"

He brushes imaginary lint from his knee. Today it's "mortal" clothing, suit and tie, sensible shoes. The heavy jacket rests on a nearby chair, scarf folded neatly on top. The stolen pendant glints against his crisp shirt. I eye it as he answers.

"Change of plans," he says. "It suddenly became more appealing to bring you here than endure a few more months of silence, though, I'm beginning to have second thoughts."

"So…I'm here as a bedwarmer and entertainment."

Loki flashes me a smile. "Of course not, my dear. You serve a much higher purpose."

"Which is…?"

Again, no answer. The subject is changes.

"You've taken to my parting gift. I suppose no one noticed it on you?"

"No, thankfully." I frown. "I still can't figure out why you left it with me. I mean, what if someone had noticed?"

"Oh, that would've never happen," he assures me. "And it was a measure of protection for both of us. Namely, you. But I reaped benefits too."

"Benefits as in…?"

Superior smirk set, he inclines his head, examining his nails. "Oh, nothing grand. They're connected, you know. Good source of energy transfers….they act as batteries to magic."

Now this is interesting. "So, I was holding a storehouse of power. You could draw from this-" I wiggle my fingers. "—when you were running low on juice."

"Very good," he nods, eyes still on his nails.

"But that doesn't explain why you gave it to me. Or my being here."

A heavy sigh. "I already told you that last night. And I thought 'protection' would make sense to your humble mortal mind, but it appears I am mistaken. Deduction, girl, is no one of your strongest traits."

-XXX-

I ask again over dinner. While pushing around my broiled potatoes (he seriously must have chef tucked away somewhere, no way could the God of Mischief cook so well), I bring it up casually. Why am I here?

He chews slowly, looking intently at his plate before swallowing, and then taking another bite. For a while I am patient, thinking perhaps he's thinking. But then I recognize that the Trickster simply did not want to answer. Frustration mounts in my throat. And, naturally, I ask again.

Loki doesn't want to hear it. Again, he brushes me off, but this time I am persistent.

"This is not fair. You can't just pluck me out of my life at your every whim and stick me in your damn house while you scheme to rule to world or get revenge or whatever." I sneer. "I know our mere mortal lives mean nothing to you, but I would appreciate some answers here, your royal highness."

There is a clatter, then a bang as his silverware is dropped to his plate, and the chair is thrust from the table. Loki rises, stalking around the curve of the table toward me. I watch, unblinking. He stops behind my chair, his hands going through the narrow slots in the back to caress the base of my skull, weaving long fingers in my hair. And then he pulls. Hard.

I manage a strangled yelp. Along with the hair-pulling he sends a shock of energy through every nerve, making my skin crackle. Loki forcefully tilts my head back until our eyes are level. One hand is extended to stroke my cheek. In a low voice, the same velvet he always uses when attempting to convince me of something, he say very, very quietly, "My love. My darling little twit. My foolish girl…. You've asked me this before. And I have told you what my rationale is. I need not tell you anything if I so wished. Consider yourself fortunate…if there is additional information, then clearly I did not think it appropriate for you, my dear. So…I do hope you'll trust my judgment….my sweetest creature. I would loathe to think you didn't-" There is a sharp tug. My nerves are screaming. "-trust me."

The hand stills. His eyes are shards of slate-like ice. Cold. Grey. Unyielding. I shudder. Slight smile in place, he deems me comprehensive to his instruction. I am patted on the cheek, then released. For the reminder of the meal I sit, frozen and silent, more than a little shell-shocked.

-XXX-

A week goes by rather quickly. I'm not at first allowed to leave. Eventually, I coax him down enough for escorted trips outside of the apartment- - - -he has many things there for me, having prepared for my arrival, but there are a few items missing. A shopping trip is required. He pouts (as much as Loki can pout, anyways) as I mill about the pharmacist's aisles, browsing.

Our days follow a routine, much as before. We wake, argue briefly over breakfast. Loki disappears for a few hours to conduct some kind of business. In this time, I explore the house, read, and generally mope about. Our roles have definitely reversed. A lot of sleeping occurs in those first few days. He returns in the late afternoon. I present my case to be sent home. I am denied. Things are thrown. Dinner. An hour or two of reading, debate (or simply avoiding questions, in Loki's case), and then bed.

Though I've found two other bedrooms, both comfortably appointed, there has never been any suggestion that I sleep elsewhere. It is simply a topic that isn't approached. We share a bed. And not a word is said about it.

My job is another subject of argument. "How am I going to explain this to Charlene?" I wail the evening after I was first plucked from the yellow house. "I love that job, damnit, Loki, and if I lose it because of you and your insecurities-"

"You won't lose it," he cuts me off smoothly. "Along with your blasted feline, she received a very polite note from me explaining where you were. It will keep."

I am not so sure.

"For how long?" I demand. "How long are you planning on keeping me here?"

"As long as necessary," hangs in the air, though it's not spoken aloud. Loki raises a brow. Understanding crosses between us. I am forced to wonder how long, exactly, "necessary" might be defined as. But, as many things, an answer is long coming.

I manage to convince him I need to properly get out of the house. Walks are agreed to, but only in the evenings or mornings, never much further than the park, and I must always be wearing that blasted ring.

"It is ugly," I say bluntly. "And it's heavy."

Deadpan, the god informs me that the moment I remove the band from my finger, he will stalk me down and stuff the thing down my throat, so help him god, where I shan't be able to dislodge it, even if I try. Naturally, I attempt this within minutes of the threat, alone in the master bathroom.

He appears within seconds, impassive. Brushing off my half-finished protests, the ring is shoved back onto my fingers. He presses down hard on the metal, enough to hurt, and murmurs unintelligible chants. The metal glows briefly, and is hot against my skin. Scalding. I wrench my limb away.

Baring his teeth, he looms over me, grin as wicked as a serpent's. Nothing is said, but the parting message is clear.

Pleased, he turns and walks out.

The ring doesn't come off.

Walks are allowed. I've not been in New York in a long time, and usually only on business, so discovering my small corner of the city is a private joy. On occasion, Loki joins me. We're very quiet, too busy looking at the world around us to chat much. I come to know the pathways of the park, which alleys I ought to scurry past, the nicest carts to purchase coffee and bagels from. There is, I find, nothing like a New York bagel. Loki likes them well enough, but declares he'd much rather a muffin. The mere thought of the Trickster god having a preference for a fluffy blueberry-wheat pastry causes me to snort into my coffee. And, naturally, the god doesn't understand. I'm quick to find my scarf tripping me, skirts blown up by a wind that seems to affect no one else on the block, or coffee down my front, scalding.

The last one can usually be fixed if I reduce myself to begging. And if I purchase him a muffin, of course. Lemon poppyseed. Or, on occasion, strawberry walnut.

As a whole, our reunion is a violent as the storm he'd returned in. Thrust into an entirely new city, debating every day of the week, I wonder how I could manage even a year of this. But then again, I wonder how I've lived without it all my life. Loki is no prince, but he's probably the only man I'll ever want to live with again.

-XXXX-

Awesome response, guys. Thank you for the support! Especially my usual crowd. It has been a rough week. These reviews are gold. More would be sweet too...just saying'...

I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but I recently posted a Frigga and Loki piece called Child of Mine that will later kinda figure into this story.

We are about to enter a storm, folks. Some very intriguing twists on the horizon. Looking forward to your reactions.