okaythislookshawkguy: The flu.
Wherein Thor and Loki make peace on their deathbeds. (Humor/Drama. PG.)
Not exactly the prompt, but in the spirit, I think.
Thor is dying.
"Someone will pay for this malfeasance," says Loki, his fists clenched. "No creature in any realm shall poison a Prince of Asgard and live to tell of it."
"For the last time, it's not poison, it's food poisoning," says Darcy Lewis. "Those burritos did look kind of funky, come to think of it."
Thor's innards feel as though he has swallowed Volstagg whole, and his friend is attempting to escape with axe in hand. "Loki," he manages to say, "when you return home, tell Father of what I've done here on Midgard. Tell him I have tried to make amends as best I know how. Swear it to me."
"I will," his brother promises solemnly, face growing pale with grief. "I will tell him. Mother as well."
"Guys, seriously, don't be such drama queens. It's going to suck for a day or so, but then you'll be fine. I promise."
Thor has never questioned Darcy Lewis's sphere of knowledge before, but she is mistaken. He is dying. He can feel it. All his millennia of war and glory and he is to be finished by this, the lowest, most cowardly form of slaughter.
The fates are cruel.
"Listen, you just stay there on the couch. I'll go pick up some Gatorade and Saltines." Darcy Lewis pats the top of Thor's head. The impact of her hand reverberates through his skull. "It'll be over soon."
"Not speedily enough. Brother, be merciful: find a dagger and finish it."
Loki's skin blanches further.
"You said that about the hangover, too."
"This is different."
"Bet you a pack of Double-Stuf that it's not."
Thor's stomach does sickening flips at the thought of the treats known to Midgardians as Oreos. He reaches for the pail by his side—
—but Loki grabs it first, retching.
No. "Not you as well," Thor moans, heart sick with both toxins and despair. What will become of Asgard, if both Princes have succumbed? Who will sit upon the throne? "All is lost."
His brother — his poor, doomed brother — makes a gagging noise and shudders, sitting hard upon the floor.
"Glad I ordered the chicken," says Darcy Lewis. "Don't move; we'll get you some blankets and a pillow." Loki shakes his head, his pale face now sickly-white and covered in sweat, but she waves him off. "Trust me, you'll want to stick close to the bathroom for the next twenty-four hours. Jane, you didn't have a burrito, right?"
"Come look at this, these readings are incredible—"
"Jane!"
"—I haven't seen feeds like this since the night you arrived—"
"Yo! Jane! People are poisoned! Focus!"
"—if they can be replicated then… what? Poisoned? Who's poisoned?"
"The royal line of the Realm Eternal," says Thor. He eyes the distance to the bath chamber. Fifteen feet. He can make it without perishing upon the stone floor. Possibly.
"No one, but you weren't listening. I'm going to the store. Get that foam mat and some spare blankets out of the cupboard and make up a bed, will you? The pets ate some bad Mexican."
"Oh, is that all? They'll be fine. Loki, I'll just bring the papers to you."
Loki whimpers.
"Midgard women are without sympathy," says Thor.
Darcy Lewis just grins. "Don't die while I'm gone," she tells him.
He can promise nothing.
"I never thought it would be like this." Thor attempts to roll onto his side, his mortal form weak with sickness and exhaustion. The last of his strength had been spent at midnight, staggering to to the bath chamber for what was surely at least the dozenth time. "I always believed I would meet my end with dignity, upon the field of honorable battle."
"As did I." Loki has at least retained the power of speech. Thor cannot see him through the darkness, though he lies upon the floor but five feet away. "Or in battle, anyway. Likely it would not be honorable."
"You have always fought with honor, brother."
"You know that to be untrue."
"Well, you have never fought without necessity." Thor pauses. "Unlike myself."
Loki is quiet.
If they are to die before morning, Thor wishes to reach Valhalla with a clear conscience. "This is my doing, Loki. You warned me not to go to Jotunheim, you warned me not to goad Laufey, and had I but heeded your counsel, we would never have come to such grief. It is my fault we are here now. And I am sorry."
Thor cannot recall speaking in such a manner. Perhaps he said these things as a child, under the stern gaze of the King and Queen; surely he must have. But as a man grown, save for apologies brought forth by Darcy Lewis — for words fall easily with her, more easily than with anyone — he has never expressed his regrets aloud.
There is, to his surprise, some relief in it.
"It was I who let the Frost Giants into Asgard."
Thor's musings come to a halt. "What?"
"You know I have ways between realms other than the Bifrost. I showed one of them to the Frost Giants." Loki's voice is weak and thready. "And I only advised you not to defy Father because I knew that would ensure you would."
"But… why?"
"Because I was angry. Envious. Resentful. As ever, though it has never mattered."
"Loki—"
"I thought we would be stopped before we reached Jotunheim. That Father would delay your coronation and hold your actions in contempt, but I… I never intended all of this. It was only a trick." He laughs sickly. "And now my jealousy has killed us both."
They could fight; they could argue for their few remaining hours over who holds the greatest share of blame for their banishment. But what would be the point? Neither of them will ever see another sunrise. "It matters no longer, brother. We shall enter Valhalla together."
"Hel, more like. But yes. Together."
There is a comfort in that, at least.
The silence does not last long, for Loki is soon retching into the pail once more, and Thor drags himself for what is likely the last time to and from the bath chamber. The poison is spreading. It cannot be long now.
"I wonder," he says, once he has crawled his way back to his couch, "if they will ever learn how we met our ends. Heimdall will not know the whole story."
"Don't worry. Jane Foster is clever. Even for a mortal, she is clever. She shall find the Rainbow Bridge, and she and Darcy Lewis will tell our tale."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Then Father will rain destruction upon this pitiful realm until we are avenged."
"If Father does not, Mother will." There is the smallest hitch in Loki's words. For a moment Thor fears the worst — that he has drawn his final breath — but then he continues, voice thick: "Why did she not come for us? Were we so far beyond redemption?"
"Mother would not care if we were. There must be another explanation."
"I think I may be cursed."
"Because of this? It is poison, Loki, not spellcraft. You should know that better than anyone."
"I have my reasons."
"The toxin has reached your mind."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." A pause. "Brother… if we must die in this wretched place, I am glad we are not alone."
"As am I, brother. As am I. Are there any Saltines left?"
The pack of crackers hits Thor on the forehead.
Out in the desert, attached to several hundred thousand dollars worth of surveillance equipment and under the observation of more than twenty highly-trained S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists, Mjolnir trembles in its rocky prison.
When Thor opens his eyes in the morning — he opens his eyes — Darcy Lewis is there, hovering over him, wrinkling her nose. "Is this Valhalla?" he asks hoarsely.
"Sorry," she says. "Still New Mexico."
"Where is Loki? Did he survive the night?"
"Jane's feeding him cereal. I said you wouldn't die. You owe me Oreos."
They have been given another chance. The morning light has never looked so beautiful. "I should not have doubted your wisdom, Darcy Lewis."
"Nope. Now go take a shower, 'cause let me tell you, you smell really, really gross."