Max felt like she was spinning—spinning in the darkness with a stomach that churned right along with her. Before she opened her eyes, she was aware of two things: that it was early in the morning and that she needed to puke sometime soon. Her eyes opened heavily after taking a few deep breaths, trying to ward off the vomit, and when she rolled over, she realized she wasn't in her usual bed. Instead, she was in a dark room illuminated by a red lava lamp. The sheets and plethora of pillows around her smelled like Johnny's aftershave and deodorant, with a hint of body odour emitted when she shifted, and she sat up in a panic.

And then flopped back down onto the sea of pillows when her head started to spin more violently than before. Closing her eyes, she tried to remind herself that everything was fine—that she would just throw up and it would be sorted. Unfortunately, the fact that she couldn't remember anything beyond Loki's departure was also unsettling, and her chest heaved in a continued panic. Why was she in Johnny's bed?

Licking her lips and swallowing, forcing the saliva down her dry throat, Max sat up a little slower this time, a hand on her forehead, and scoped the room. There was dirty laundry everywhere, and it looked more like a teenage boy's room than a grown man's—complete with a terrarium and everything.

After giving the room a once over, she checked herself. She appeared to still be wearing all her clothing from the night before, including Peter's t-shirt that they swapped early in the game—neither seemed to think to swap back once it was over, apparently. Her hair was out of its ponytail and loose around her shoulders, and her mouth tasted absolutely horrible. Otherwise, she seemed to be in a fairly good condition—ignoring the swirling pit of bile and residual alcohol in her stomach.

Max groaned. Her head was starting to throb, and as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, she touched something warm and fuzzy—like a sweater left over a heater. She then let out a shriek when Johnny emerged from beneath a pile of laundry at her feet. He was shirtless and wearing a motorcycle helmet, but appeared to also be wearing pants as he shuffled out from under the clothing.

"Oh my god," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "What were you doing under there?"

He pushed the visor up and sat back on his elbows. "What? Don't you ever sleep in a pile of clean laundry?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Can't say I have."

"Then you're missing out," he told her. "Besides… My bed was taken."

He gestured up at her, and her cheeks flushed automatically. Clearing her throat, she closed her eyes and took a few more deep breaths, willing the puke to stay where it was for now.

"We… We didn't… You know," she started, trailing off before she could actually ask the question. Johnny stared at her from beneath the thick black covering of the helmet. "We didn't… You know—"

"No," he groaned, flopping back onto more laundry with his arms splayed. "Don't you remember? Peter and I put you to bed after you started falling over."

"Oh." No, she didn't recall such an event. She checked her knees half-heartedly, assuming she would have some questionable bruises in a few hours. "Good."

"No need to sound so relieved," he muttered, fiddling with the drawstrings on his trackpants. "I've been told I'm a pretty good lay."

She wanted to bury her face in a pillow. Laughing nervously, she tucked her hair behind her ears. "I'm sure you are, but I have my good lay already."

"I figured as much."

Loki. Oh, god. Max rubbed her face vigorously with her hands, elbows resting on her knees, and then let out a lengthy groan. What had she said to him last night? She knew, vaguely, that she had told him off because he was being an insistent ass about something or another, but she couldn't recall her exact wording.

Something about a doll?

Fuck. Fuck.

Mouth filling with a fresh influx of saliva, Max quickly realized she couldn't hold it in anymore. She clamped a hand down over her lips and shot off the bed, and Johnny ducked out of the way as she hurdled toward the room that she assumed was the bathroom.

"Aim for the toilet," she heard him call weakly. She fell to her knees, slamming them against the cold tile, and lifted the lid before emptying the entire contents of her stomach into surprisingly clean porcelain bowl. Eyes stinging and nose running, Max was stuck there for what felt like hours—heaving and vomiting and crying through the worst of it.

She was never drinking again—ever. When it felt like the worst of it was over, she fell back and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and wiping her mouth with some toilet paper. Although her stomach felt better, her head continued to spin. Taking some very deliberate breaths, Max used the wall to get back to her feet, and then flushed everything twice. There wasn't anything she could do about the smell, but Johnny did have a can of Febreeze that seemed to do the trick—sort of. She rinsed her mouth out at the sink and gave her face a quick wash, and then staggered out, leaning back against the doorframe.

"Sorry."

"Better in there than in here," Johnny told her. He had migrated from the floor to his bed, and appeared to be nesting now in the sea of pillows. "You can sleep here if you want…"

She shook her head, the headache starting behind her eyes now, and then sighed.

"No, I need something to settle my stomach."

"Nothing heavy." He was mumbling now, and Max watched his eyes drift shut as he hugged a pillow to his chest. She rolled her eyes.

"Thanks," she muttered. "I've never had a hangover before."

"You're lucky then."

Chuckling, she paused briefly to tug his blanket up, covering him to his chin, and then made her way out of his bedroom. The doorway led straight back into the meat of his apartment, and it was an absolute mess. There were Jenga blocks scattered around the kitchen, empty bottles of alcohol everywhere (the smell making her want to puke again), and a picked-over bread loaf on the table. Peter was nowhere to be seen at first, but she soon spotted him flung out on a couch, his eyes closed and a bottle of water sitting by his head.

Smart kid.

Feeding her fingers through her tatty hair, she shuffled in the general direction of the door that led to the stairwell, stopping here and there with a hand on her stomach and the other on her forehead. The light in the stairs, usually dim, felt far too bright that morning, and Max squinted as she started her climb. Halfway up, she regretted her decision to even get out of bed, and she wished she had curled up on one of Johnny's other couches to get a few extra hours of crashing. Apparently, yesterday and today were days of bad choices.

It might have been because she felt like absolute shit, but it seemed to take an extra twenty minutes—at the very least—to get up to the floor where she usually ate her meals. The stairs were excruciatingly tiring to climb that morning, and Max stopped at every landing to both catch her breath and settle her swirling stomach. So far, there was no risk of puking again, but one could never be too careful during the early stages of a hangover.

Sue would probably murder her if she threw up anywhere other than a toilet.

The main floor was quiet as she stumbled through the doorway, though without Johnny's blackout curtains, the glorious spring sun shone through without a hint of mercy. She blinked at it for a moment, glaring across the living room—it was nice to be rid of the rain, but it could have stayed for just one more morning. It wasn't until she let out a groan-sigh combination and spun dramatically toward the kitchen that she noticed Loki. She was surprised to see him up and eating so early—and by himself.

Seated at the table, his long legs hitched up on the wooden bars of the high stool, he seemed quite relaxed. However, when he turned to look at her, giving her a noticeable once over, she saw nothing but an icy aloofness in his eyes. He returned to his cereal without a word, the spoon clanking noisily against the side of the bowl.

She tugged self-consciously at her clothes, knowing that she looked like a total disaster. What was she supposed to say to him? She remembered being rude, but she hadn't the slightest idea what she actually said to him—or what he said to her. The whole incident was a fuzzy blur in her memory, one that was bound to clear up in time, but not when it mattered. Nibbling her lower lip, Max trudged across the space between them. However, instead of sitting on the stool next to him, Max moved to the other side of the counter to stand opposite him.

"Hi."

He looked up at her slowly, elbows resting on the countertop and shoulders hunched up. Chewing, he arched an eyebrow. She knew she needed to apologize, and surely he would realize that she was beyond belligerent and not responsible for whatever immaturity came out of her mouth at the time.

Before she could say anything more, however, Loki spoke up, his spoon still in hand.

"Did you enjoy your night in Johnny's bed?"

Each word was said so deliberately that the sweeping statement stole her breath away, and she gawked at him for a moment—the tips of her fingers were numb.

"What?"

"I'll not repeat myself," he said stiffly, and Max leaned on the counter, heart racing and palms sweating. "I spoke perfectly clear."

"Yeah, I heard what you said," she forced out. This was his moment to clarify. "I just…" However, when he didn't, she cleared her throat and straightened up. "I didn't… You know I'm not that type of woman."

"Well, you fell back into my bed easily enough." He scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing. "You fooled me, which is quite the accomplishment."

Hurt tears stung her eyes, clinging to her lashes as she stared at him. Was this a joke? She couldn't have possibly said anything bad enough for him to be so… cruel.

"How… How can you say that to me?" She stared at him, her eyebrows slowly knitting together, and waited for something—anything—to indicate that this wasn't real. Was she dreaming? Had she passed out in the stairwell?

Loki returned her gaze, unblinking, and took a breath. However, after opening and closing his mouth a few times, he simply said nothing and resumed eating his breakfast.

"Loki—"

"You made it quite apparent," he ground out, glaring up at her from across the countertop, "that this was… You've said enough, Max."

"I was drunk," she hissed, throwing her hands up, "and I'm sorry if I said something that hurt your feelings—"

"Was he any good?" The question knocked the wind out of her again. Loki straightened up and set the spoon down next to his bowl. "He strikes me as the type who would be quite enjoyable. I suspect you won't be covered in bruises this time."

Her jaw dropped, and she hastily wiped away two tears that rolled down her cheeks. Sniffling noisily, she shook her head and scoffed.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Excuse me?" His eyes narrowed at her.

"A fucking idiot," she repeated, enunciating each word as much as she possibly could. She then reached across the tabletop and snatched his bowl, and for a minute she couldn't decide if she wanted to dump it in his lap or over his head. In the end, she turned away, her hands trembling, and threw it into the sink, bits of soggy cereal and milk sloshing everywhere.

"That's a terrible waste of food," Loki sneered as she stalked out of the kitchen, and she didn't bother to shoot him a look over her shoulder. She made it about two flights up before collapsing in the corner of the stairwell, feeling emotionally and physically drained for the day.

It wasn't even eight yet.

Loki listened, his eyes closed, for the telltale sign of a door shutting. When he heard it, his cool demeanor dropped, and he rose from the stool and slammed it against the kitchen tabletop. It shattered, naturally, with wood and metal splintering off in his hand, and he stepped away, teeth gritted and hands fisted.

He was angry at her. For these last few days, he had read up on human anatomy as a courtesy to Reed so that he might be knowledgeable enough to assist the man in his pathetic attempt to save the planet. He assumed his insight would be necessary if there was even a fleeting hope of success, and Loki did it because he knew Max would approve of the effort.

And she didn't even care. Instead, she grew listless and selfish for his attentions, as though she had exhausted everything else to appease her boredom. She went down to carouse with other men, to drink and play games, and not once did she stop to bring Loki with her. She chastised him in front of them—she set the line perfectly clear of what they were to be, even in her drunken stupor. Words slurred, eyes unfocused, Max effectively destroyed all motivation he had with a few simple phrases. She feigned ignorance in the light of day, but he knew it—he should have known it all along.

He was angry with himself for falling prey to the whims of a human, even one he cared for as deeply as he did that infuriating woman. He was angry that he still wanted to take her away with him, and he wondered if she would even entertain the idea now. How had she hidden her true feelings so well?

A small, niggling voice at the back of his mind wondered if he was overreacting. After all, she had seemed genuinely distraught at his jeers moments earlier, and he so hated to see her cry.

Shaking his head, he stalked toward the chair by the window and settled in it, careful to keep it away from the prying eyes of outsiders. Was Max the true trickster here? Had he been blind to it all along, or was he simply throwing a fit because she embarrassed him—hurt him? Rubbing his eyes, he sunk down for a sulk, glaring out at the brilliantly sunny day before him.

He sat like that for some time. He listened to the children eat their breakfast, and apologized to their mother for the broken stool—he offered to fix it, but she insisted it wasn't worth the effort. He then vowed to stand for their meals, which she took as payment with a silent nod.

When the children were gone, he listened to Reed and Sue bicker, perhaps forgetting he was even there. She insisted he spend more time with their offspring, and he argued that he was on the verge of something important. She asked if their children were important to him, and then there was no more to the conversation.

Loki listened to Ben partake in his breakfast. The hulking beast sat on the couch when there were no others present, and they exchanged icy glances before Loki returned his gaze out the window. The Spider joined them shortly after, though he avoided Loki's eyes in the window's reflections. Instead, he merely grabbed something from the fridge and ducked out of the room. Perhaps he would visit Max, Loki wondered bitterly. They seemed to have become close, after all.

He listened to the television for some time. Ben managed to flip through the channels with his fat fingers, but he didn't turn back to watch. The sound stopped at the arrival of the tower's last occupant, and Loki watched Johnny drag himself across the room to get a pot of coffee brewing. Ben left shortly after Johnny's first verbal jab, and the room fell to silence. Bubbling water came next, and Loki glared harder at the building across the street.

"Your girl can really handle her drink," Johnny said suddenly, and Loki slowly turned in his chair. The man had his mug in hand, and after taking a quick sip, he grabbed a piece of fruit from the counter and disappeared. The door shut again, this time with less meaning, and Loki slumped down even further, his hand resting on his forehead, his eyes closed.

Time lost its grasp on him after, and he wasn't sure how much of it had passed when he heard the door open again. He sat up, guiltily hoping that Max had resurfaced. However, a much shorter figure strode in—the young boy, Franklin. He had a box in hand, and after casting Loki a hesitant look, he settled at the table that Loki had often seen him play games of chess at with various other members of his family—and Max, on occasion.

Lips pressed together tightly, Loki resumed gazing out the window, preferring to be alone in his sullenness. In the background, he heard Franklin setting pieces up, each one making a little sound once they were in place. And then it was quiet again. The silence dragged on this time, and Loki could feel two little eyes gazing at the back of his head. So, he let out a sigh and eased himself to his feet, turning slowly to look upon the boy. The chair on the other side of the table was pushed out, and Franklin sat there, looking so much like his father, with his hands on his lap and a slightly nervous expression on his face.

Max wanted him to see if the boy had magic. He felt none as he strode across the room, around the couches and coffee table, passed the TV. There was no pulse, no aura of any kind. As he pulled out the chair, taking a seat behind two rows of black playing pieces, Loki scanned the boy's face for signs of anything that would indicate a magical presence. When there was nothing, he settled properly, wondering if Max had simply been seeing things.

"I have never played this game before," Loki admitted. The boy licked his lips. "You'll need to show me."

"It's basically like a war," Franklin started, picking up a piece from the front row.

"And what would you know of war?"

He kept his voice neutral, free of the usual scorn he might have thrown at a grown man in the same situation. The boy looked up at him sharply and Loki saw him gulp.

"Nothing, really."

"Continue," he said, gesturing to the pieces. "Am I to believe the forces of lightness and darkness are in a bitter battle?"

The boy seemed to lift, perhaps pleased that Loki had acquiesced to the game. "Yes."

"And I am darkness?"

"You can be the white guys next time," Franklin told him, waving it off. "It doesn't matter which side you play. There's no good and evil in chess… only strategy."

"No bloodshed either, I assume," Loki mused, picking up a piece with a cross atop it. Franklin grinned and let out a chuckle.

"No, no blood in chess." He paused for a moment, giving Loki a once over. "Mom would be really upset if that happened."

"I suspect she would." Loki held out the piece. "What is this?"

"That's your bishop," the boy said, taking it out of his hand and setting it back in its place. He had to sit at the far edge of his chair to reach across the board completely. "But we'll start with the pawns."

Loki listened astutely as Franklin went into great detail about each piece. He was an articulate boy, much like his parents, and he seemed to have a great love for the game. In a way, Loki was almost touched that he had been invited to play such a precious pastime.

"Why does the queen have more power than the king?" Loki inquired when the boy finally took a breath. He picked up the piece to examine it.

"I dunno," the boy said, lapsing back temporarily into a childishness that always seemed to make Max smile. "Maybe queens are the ones who do all the dirty work. Mom says it's because girls are the brains of the operation, but I don't think that's the case."

"Your mother is a smart woman," Loki told him. "You should heed her."

Franklin's smile faltered a little—perhaps that was not the response he was hoping for. He nodded. "Okay."

"I'll concede the first move to you," Loki offered after a moment, gesturing for him to begin. Franklin squared his shoulders and leaned forward, moving his first pawn across the checkered squares. Loki cocked his head to the side; he hadn't the knowledge of the game yet to make any calculations, but he assumed it was something he could pick up quite easily. However, rather than using his hands to move his first player, he used his mind. The pawn slid gracefully from one tile to another, Loki's hands resting in his lap, and Franklin stiffened.

"What—"

"Max told me about what happened when you last played with her," Loki said gently. "She says you moved things without touching them."

Franklin glanced back at the entryway—they were quite alone.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it," Franklin admitted after a moment's hesitation. He was looking down at his lap, his eyebrows knitted.

"Why?"

"Because my parents don't know what it is," he said quickly, looking up to meet Loki's gaze. He noticed that the boy's eyes were watery at the omission, and he gave him the courtesy of studying the board. "They're worried I'm a mutant."

"What can you do?" He watched Franklin move another pawn into the fighting arena, and Loki responded in kind, moving a piece with his magic.

"Lots of stuff."

"Be specific," he insisted, a sharpness to his tone that no doubt hinted he was not to be played with—that there was no strategy in their conversation. Franklin licked his lips and fidgeted with the collar of his t-shirt.

"Move things." The boy's knight came forth and claimed one of Loki's pawns—the first non-bloodshed of the battle. He set the piece aside, and Loki saw a way to cut down the knight in two turns if it remained there. "One time, I made Valeria see something that wasn't there."

Loki's eyebrows shot up.

"I got into a lot of trouble for that."

He chuckled, willing his knight into the field. How many times had he been chastised for frightening servant girls in his youth with a slight of hand? Frigga was always so disappointed in his abuse of magic, though he would have willingly taken her light scolding again.

"Do your parents nurture your talent?"

Franklin fumbled with his next piece, looking up at Loki with arched brows.

"When you can do things no one else can do," Loki whispered, leaning forward to share the delicious secret, "it is a talent. It is a gift that should be tamed, controlled, and utilized when in need."

"Mom helped me before the aliens came," he admitted with a sheepish shrug, "but she says my… gifts aren't like hers. She doesn't understand them."

"Of course not," Loki said, watching him move his knight again. Foiled. He frowned, and then eased his own knight forward too. "Everyone's talents are different in all respects. I can move things and conjure images, like you, but we will be different too."

"Can you just… Can you just do it?"

"Yes." He watched the boy fret over his next move for the briefest of moments, and then take Loki's knight out of the board for good. In the next move, Loki was able to capture a pawn, but that barely made up for his loss. "When do your talents arise most?"

"When I'm angry."

"Emotions are exceptionally persuasive over magic," Loki told him. He paused, and then changed his wording. "Over talents… Are you always angry, or are there other feelings that will affect them?"

"Usually just angry."

"And how do you feel when the talent happens?"

"It's your turn."

He willed a piece forward, not caring quite so much about the game in that moment.

"Tell me, Franklin."

The boy's cheeks tinted. "Sometimes when I'm really sad… That's when I can change what people see."

"And what do you feel?" he asked again. "Do you feel a pulse or sensation?"

"Sometimes." Franklin leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumped. "Normally I just feel nothing… It's like I'm numb."

"Because you lack control."

"Oh."

They said nothing else about it. Loki played the entire game without touching a single piece, and Franklin beat him by only a few moves, taking his king when he least expected it. When it was finished, Loki remained seated, and the boy seemed quite pleased at the prospect of playing another round.

"Would you like me to teach you about gaining control?" he asked as Franklin set up the small players. True to his word, he set the white army in front of Loki this time, the black before himself. "I can show you how to tame your talent."

"Really?"

"I lack the distractions your parents face," he reasoned. "We can make a lesson out of it."

"Okay!" the boy blurted, practically bouncing in his seat. Loki held up a finger.

"I will not be a teacher who is easily fooled," he told the boy. "I will not be lenient for disobedience and an unwillingness to try."

"I promise to be the best student..."

Why shouldn't he teach him? Max was right about the child: articulate, thoughtful, intelligent. There was something that Loki could see behind his eyes, and while it wasn't magic, that didn't mean he couldn't be taught to control it. Besides, it was good to feel needed once more, to feel appreciated with limited effort.

This time around, Loki was permitted to make the first move. He chose it carefully, willing the first pawn into battle. It as in that moment that he heard something—a door opening. He paid it no mind, preferring to focus on his jittery opponent, and he grinned at Franklin's tactic—he began the same as he did in the last game.

"Max! Look, I taught Loki chess!"

He looked up quickly the moment Franklin said her name. She appeared frozen, standing at the entrance of the kitchen with her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes darted back and forth between them, and when Loki leaned back, Max focused her attention on Franklin.

"That was nice of you," she said finally, grinning at the boy as she approached. "Is he any good?"

"He's better than most beginners," Franklin remarked haughtily. Loki wondered if he would say that about Franklin in the days to come.

Max appeared refreshed when she pulled up a foot stool to sit on next to Franklin. Her eyes were tinged with redness—an indicator of her mood after she left him. Loki felt a guilty pang in his chest, but he did his best to keep his expression schooled. Her hair was wet and her clothes were changed, and as Loki's eyes swept across her shirt, he realized she was wearing a t-shirt that he had slept in a few days earlier.

"Are you winning?" she asked Franklin, who smirked.

"I won last time," he told her. Loki willed a knight into the field, and Franklin's smirk grew. "And I'll probably win this time."

"There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance," Loki mused softly. He settled back in his chair, reclining somewhat against its stiff support. "You'd do well to remember that."

Max looked over at him slowly, though for once, her expression was entirely unreadable to him. Loki met her gaze the best he could, unsure whether he ought to ask for forgiveness or give it. Before he could do anything, she stood up and disappeared back to the kitchen, and he heard her rummaging through the fridge. A few turns later, she returned with a sandwich. She then set the footstool closer to the center of the playing board, settling down atop it with a bite of her lunch.

"How are you feeling?" he asked cautiously as Franklin's bishop took out his castle. She chewed for a moment, her eyes on the board.

"A little better and a little worse."

"That doesn't make sense," Franklin interjected, which seemed to make Max smile sadly.

"No, I guess it doesn't."

Loki turned his attention back to the board, jaw clenched, and then hesitated before moving his other castle. Max's socked foot settled next to his beneath the table, and though she didn't look at him, not even when she spoke in the general conversation of the game, it lingered by his the entire time—which sparked an unspoken conversation neither knew they needed to have.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

HELLO. I SAW THOR 2 TODAY AND THE MUSE WAS SPARKED! I intended to finish this later in the week, but here we are. I'm still keeping this story AU, but the events in Thor 2 maaaay surface a little in the sequel to this story—we'll see! It was great, and obviously you should all see it.

Many of you asked in the reviews if Loki heard Max's confession, and based on the fact that he had no mention of it in his sulking phase, I hope that answers the question. I also had a reviewer ask for my tumblr—the link is on my homepage here, but my username there is briefcasefullof-tacos. Come say hello and enjoyyyy the Community reference!

So, I got my first enraged review for The Sky is Falling last week! It was anonymous, of course, and it basically raged on about how I wasted the reader's time, and I was one of the reasons they have trust issues (because I said it wouldn't be super cliffhangery and it was), and that they were unimpressed that two weeks of their life went toward meaningless bullshit.

So. Here's a general disclosure so I don't waste anyone's time again. This story will also be long. It's character-driven with several plotlines, and I'm not going to apologize for that. If you don't like it, don't read it. You aren't paying for it, so take your sob story somewhere else. Constructive criticism is appreciated—I've been freelance editing recently, and some work has been bad, but it's all about how you phrase things in the critique. Unnecessary complaining about something that I'd never change (plot structure, for one thing) will be scoffed at and ignored. I work so fucking hard on this stuff—more than I should—and I'm genuinely proud of what I've created here. I like working on it. I'm always plotting and planning and writing it. Take your negativity elsewhere if you have nothing useful to add from one writer/reader to another writer/reader.

Fuck. It's like people who come up to me at the theatre and want their money back because their movie was terrible, and yet they sat through it regardless. Fuck right off. If I dislike a story so much that I don't want to continue it, I just close my tab and move on. If I feel like a story isn't going anywhere, I check out a bit. I get it. Long stories are commitment. I'm a little more miffed when books I buy are bad, because there goes my money, but free online fanfiction? Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Anyway, I'm rambling waay too much. I enjoyed writing a hypocrite!Loki in this chapter (whining that Max is being selfish for wanting his time when she's bored), as well as teacher!Loki. I'm looking forward to developing all of Loki's budding relationships, particularly in romance department. Max and Loki are a bit of a trainwreck at the moment, unfortunately.

Thank you to the darlings that keep reviewing! It means the world to me!