It's official- I've lost all sense of a normal update schedule.
I do not own Marvel or any of it's characters.
Bruce watches as the S.H.I.E.L.D agent hands over Loki roughly, the latter snarling at him as if he was rabid.
"Jesus, calm down, would you?"
"Yes, calm down. Sounds like a fool's decision in my... ah, predicament?"
The man ignores the god. Turning to Stark, he pulls some papers from somewhere inside his jacket.
"Alright, this is all the paperwork for keeping this asshole here." He holds them at arm's length, desperate to no longer have anything to do with this. Bruce has to muffle a laugh as Tony splutters.
"Fury didn't say anything about paperwork!"
"You thought you were just going to keep public enemy number one here without any official say in it?"
"Well, yeah."
"Look, I want to get out of here as much as you want me gone. Just take them and we'll be done for now." His jaw shifts under muscle, keeping a yell at bay.
Snatching the documents, Tony mumbles. "Believe me, I want it more." Thumbing through them, he breathes a laugh. "How many pages are there?"
"Thirty six." The guy grows more impatient, tapping his fist on his thigh.
"Honestly."
Bruce steps forward and clears his throat. "Is that it?"
Studying his nails, the man speaks like it were obvious. "Yep."
"Then leave." He's tired of this agent, rude and unprofessional.
"Alright, of course Dr. Banner." Rolling his eyes, his arms cross over his chest. "And Mr. Stark?"
"Hm?" Still shaking his head with half of the papers in each hand.
"Director Fury doesn't want your AI to fill them out this time."
The genius shifts the documents to his left grip and puts three right fingers up. "Scout's honor."
"I'm sure."
Loki can't settle his breathing.
He will kill everyone in this room if he is forced to stay a minute longer.
Though he will not allow his facade to fall now, after everything.
He offers his hands forward. "Would you mind taking this off?" Tilting his head with a smirk. "Don't you trust me?" It feels like a mockery of a pushed down past.
"Cool it, we're not doing anything until you're in your rooms, chambers or whatever the hell you want to call it." Stark won't meet his eyes. There's perhaps some churning in his stomach, of the terror he will eventually subject Loki to.
"I'm tired." He doesn't just mean from lack of rest.
With far too much understanding, Natasha speaks. "We know."
Loki sneers, "And what would a insignificant whore know about a god?"
There's a moment of stale silence, before Romanoff lunges at him.
"Christ Steve! Let go of me!"
"Natasha!"
"What?!" Her red hair seems to be on fire.
Gripping her shoulders, the captain looks into her eyes and grounds her. "Loki loves to rile people up. He's the God of Mischief."
"Mischief doesn't have to involve petty insults."
Loki pulls back slightly. Natasha shrugs off Steve as she spits in Loki's face. "You are going to respect me as you would anyone else. No excuses. No wiggle room."
Regret blooms across his face, before his mask is slapped back on. "Of course."
What he said doesn't sit right with him, but Loki won't feel remorse.
His lies are well crafted. What he says without thought is all from the heart.
More lies. It never was as easy to lie to himself.
After that whole disaster, Stark leads him to his glorified cell. It isn't far from where he entered, he supposes it was easily accessible from anywhere on this level of the building.
He's brought down hallways either cluttered with designs, or bare and bleak. Silence. Only the slight pound of his bare feet on the rough carpet, along with the synchronized steps of the billionaire. The weight of everything is finding his shoulders.
They stop before the door.
Tony turns to him, the key pointed at him.
"Alright. We're going to set some ground rules."
"Exciting."
No gaming mood for Stark today, apparently, as his jaw locks with tension."Shut up and listen. Once we get in there, I'll take off these cuffs. You don't leave this room unless someone comes and escorts you. When you are out of this room, you are in sight of at least two people. If at any time all of us are gone, you go back into S.H.I.E.L.D custody."
Loki's throat doesn't allow any words for a moment. Just one awful fate for another.
He brings his center of gravity to his chest, broadening it. "Easy enough." The effect is lost with the thin gown.
The other man scoffs. "Sure. Coming from you, I have a little trouble believing that." Digging out a card from his back pocket, a card is in his hand. Stark holds it up to a panel next to the door, a small beep coming from the door.
A painfully bland room. Blank, emotionless.
A little like Loki. If it weren't for the bright light bleaching the room. It comes from the windows, dust sparkling through each beam.
Laughing without mirth, he looks down, as Stark removes the metal holding Loki's wrists, dangling them from a finger. "Quite roomy. For a prisoner, I suppose."
Tony won't look at him. He waves the comment off, "Yeah, yeah, shut up. Meals will be brought to you. Oh, and uh..." He scratches the back of his neck, eyes wandering to the ceiling for answers.
"What?"
"Later we can uh... you need actual clothes, we'll get your measurements later."
"I-I...why?"
Stark gets a strange look on his face before leaving without a word.
Loki has been standing in the same spot for fifteen minutes. He doesn't need actual clothing, why for? Stark is going to bring him to every burning edge of pain, he won't need luxuries.
Unless it's another trick. Another comfort to be stolen from him. At his own fault.
Like Frigga.
Gnashing his teeth, he sits on the pale covers on the bed. His head finds itself between his palms, as the tasteless tensity in the air thickens.
The Prince of Failure. The God of Lies. The God of Evil.
He doesn't deserve anything. Yet, he deserves punishment. He shouldn't be allowed death.
Though, of course, he's always been a coward, hasn't he? Saving his own skin before anyone else, now searching the simple way to escape from his consequences.
Selfish. Loki only cares for himself, seeking what's best for him. And now, that's seeing Hela.
He doesn't deserve his daughter. His body losing all signs of his wretched life. Vaguely, he wonders what they would do with his body.
Straightening, his right hand ghosts over his left forearm. A glamour covers his scars now, but he can still feel the raised lines if he lets enough of the illusion fade. His hand moves to the outline of his lips, where they were sewn shut, all those years ago.
Across the bed, there is a full length mirror. He's a bit thinner than he should be. Where is that light that had always filled his eyes in youth?
Everything that has ever been special about him, anything that made him more than the lesser prince, has all lost it's luster. Nothing about him is worth anything. Standing, Loki walks to the mirror.
Disgusting.
A morbid curiosity fills his gut, and he peels the first layer of his glamour away.
He wishes he'd at least feel the revulsion he should. But the unwanted Jotun runt no longer feels anything. Only a fog clouding what he once felt so passionately.
Scars, all over his arms, hip bones, and around his lips. The first ones he'd ever sustained.
For as much as he can't feel, the memory of rough thread tearing his flesh is still very vivid.
Now that he's pulled back some of his illusion, there's a certain haziness about him that he can't exactly place. So he shifts another out of the way.
Looking down, he screams.
His skin is blue.