Loki lay in the crater made by the Hulk slamming his body repeatedly into Stark's marble floor, breath wheezing painfully in his chest, and tried to comprehend the defeat that had befallen him so suddenly.

Perhaps he should not have taunted the mortals quite so viciously, but who could ever have imagined they could actually muster the strength to turn back the Chitauri army once fully roused? How could he have guessed that their individual abilities, so puny compared to his own, would be so incredibly magnified in aggregate? That their overlapping might would more than make up for their individual weaknesses? Stark's threat, "We have a Hulk," had been so easy to dismiss at the time–what could a single beast, no matter how strong, do against an entire army?

Apparently, what a single beast could do against an entire army was fucking destroy it.

Loki managed to drag in a full breath at last despite the stabbing torment of his broken ribs. Puny god, the Hulk had sneered after thrashing him like a ragdoll and tossing him aside, and right now Loki felt like exactly that. In fact, if he'd been anything but an eons-old god, that 2-second beating would have left him not just dead but in pieces. As it was, he'd had to drop every spell he'd been maintaining apart from his last and most dearly, desperately held–the one that kept his disgusting Jötunn ancestry hidden beneath an Æsir cloak–to shield his most vital organs from irreparable damage.

If Taryn tried to open the bedroom door now, she would be able to walk right out and find him here like this.

That thought was enough to get him out of the crater, even if the process left his entire body screaming (not the worst pain he'd ever felt, nothing close, but still horrific agony in every shattered bone and shredded muscle) and blood trickling from any number of places. The stairs. That would be far enough, just to sit there. Nothing could hide his defeat, but at least getting out of this Loki-shaped crater would allow him some illusion of dignity.

Defeat. The word was so bitter he spat, his blood smearing the once-immaculate floor. Then he laughed, the sound like gravel in an open wound.

It didn't seem possible that he'd lost so much in such a short time. An hour ago, Taryn had been willingly in his arms and the world was ripe for the taking–now he crawled, beaten, broken, a failure tossed aside by a monster as unworthy of further attention.

He'd gone from the pinnacle of bliss to the depths of misery in a single hour.

I should have chosen her, Loki thought, allowing himself this bitterness, this regret now while there were none to witness it. I should have taken her however I could get her, run whenever we needed to run, and treasured every second in her arms. But he hadn't. He'd gambled everything on this war, on being able to return to her triumphant and present the world he'd conquered to her as a courting gift, a bride-price of such value that she would be unable to reject him. Midgard had undeniably changed, but surely women still were drawn to warriors wreathed in glorious victory. Surely Taryn would reconsider when presented with such proof of his devotion, even if he would never love her. Surely.

He shook his head, silently laughing at himself for this train of thought. What did any of that matter now? There was no chance for him to achieve either of his goals. He had no bride gift to buy his woman. He had no victory to buy his freedom. He had nothing but defeat and humiliation bought with his blood staining the floor.

The Tesseract was in the Midgardians' hands and he had no way to wrench it from them. The Chitauri would claim him rather than Loki claiming Taryn. If he were to hope for anything, it would be that the Midgardians or the Æsir would choose to keep him and punish him themselves, because as terrible as their tortures were, neither race held a candle to the Chitauri.

And yes, now here came the heroes, the so-called Avengers, to gloat over his defeat. Loki pulled himself onto the stair at last, sardonic smile held in place by force of will alone. Only one thing could make his humiliation complete–

–and with the softest of clicks, the opening of Stark's bedroom door provided it. Loki nodded, still smiling, wishing he actually was less than an eons-old god, wishing the Hulk had been able to kill him. But like all of his lives, death was a luxury he was not allowed until he had suffered enough–and no matter how much he suffered, it was never enough. Forcing his face into relaxed lines as though he were not wishing for death, Loki forced his gaze up, drawing the tattered remains of his dignity around him as if it could replace his shattered armor.

And the first gaze he met was Taryn's. She stood well back against the wall, unnoticed by the Avengers as of yet, pale and shocked with her hand pressed to her mouth. Before he even realized he intended it, Loki reached out and touched her mind. I wish I had chosen you, he murmured in her mind, regret in every word.

Her shoulders straightened and flame-bright patches of shame burned in her cheeks. It's too late now. You had your chance. I am no man's second choice, she shot back in the same way.

I could never be so lucky, he agreed, then forced his gaze to move to those of his captors. One by one, he met their eyes, cataloging their reactions–disdain in the Hulk's, hatred in Barton's, hurt betrayal in Thor's, no emotion whatsoever in Natasha's, righteous satisfaction in the Captain's, anger and confusion in Stark's.

Of all of them, Stark's gaze was the least difficult to hold. "If it's all the same to you," Loki said to him, clinging to his bravado with everything he had, still maintaining that little smile, "I'll have that drink now."

He wasn't even surprised when they dragged him out without even acknowledging his request.

Yes, I know it's short. The next one's longer. By the way, hi! I'm not dead!