#give him gold jewellery seriously what is all of Asgard’s gold even FOR if not for that

[worstloki]

What is your favorite kind of thorki fanfic? Everyone knows that you read them

okay okay so imagine all the terrible popular fanon tropes that get attributed to Loki. Now hand them over to Thor and do them well—!

[mythologyfolklore]

Trusting the enemy - Pt. 02

Baldr – Forgiveness

(A/N: Set the night before Baldr’s death. He has a conversation with Loki, fully aware that he’s talking to his murderer. It doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it should.)

Baldr isn't capable of hatred.

Not of loathing or disgust.

Not even of spite or malice.

He is, however, capable of anger and revulsion.

Even though his anger never lasts long, it's still there. He never shows it; there is no point. Besides, he doesn't want to hurt anyone by lashing out in any way.

Someone has to be the better person and who, if not him?

So he chooses to be the role model, the paragon of virtue, the one who brightens up everyone's day. It's actually quite easy; he is just that kind of person. Being kind to others brings him joy. His friendliness and compassion are genuine. His cheerfulness is not. But why?

Baldr is lucky, oh so lucky.

He has beauty, wisdom and grace. He has the biggest ship and the fairest, holiest hall in Asgard. He has everyone's love and admiration. He has a lovely wife and a wonderful son.

So why, why the Niflheimr is he not happy?!

His smile is brighter than the sun, but it only serves to please others and hide his melancholy.

Everyone thinks him happy, but he isn't and only four people in Asgard know this.

Óðinn knows, because of course he does.

Baldr doesn't talk to his father about his depression, but the Allfather knows anyway. And maybe, just maybe, the light god is grateful, that his father doesn't judge him for it or bring it up.

Höðr knows too.

He knows Baldr better than anyone, even though his eyes cannot see. His shadow is like a blanket of comfort, his coolness is soothing. The god of darkness and winter expects nothing from him.

Heimdallr knows, because nothing escapes him.

Baldr values the Guardian's understanding and sympathetic nature, so similar to his own. What he values even more is that he doesn't participate, when the other gods throw stuff at him.

The last person who knows is definitely the most problematic one: Loki.

Baldr wishes, that the red-haired trickster would like him at least a little bit – after all, they are by oath uncle and nephew. That will never be, though: Loki wants him dead and will indeed be the one to bring on his imminent demise.

Baldr doesn't even know why Loki hates him so much (it's not like the older god has ever told him, what his problem is; he always scoffs and turns away, when Baldr tries to talk to him). He only knows, that he will die at the other's hands. And he knows exactly how, too – his prophetic nightmares are very vivid.

Maybe he should hate Loki for being his future murderer.

But he doesn't.

He is still angry at him, though.

You can't frame Höðr for murder and expect the prospective murder victim not to be angry!

.

Loki hates everything about Baldr.

Everything.

He hates, that the blondie is Óðinn's son.

He hates, that the young god is so pretty, graceful, wise and sweet.

He hates, that everyone loves that goody-two-shoes and fusses about him, when he shows the slightest hint of distress. Frigg has made literally everything in all nine worlds swear, that it wouldn't harm her “precious baby boy”! Well, almost everything – a twig of mistletoe was too young to sign legally binding contracts, she said. But still!

It makes him sick, so sick. Seeing Baldr makes his blood boil. Hearing his voice makes him want to retch and when he has to make body contact for whatever reason, his flesh crawls beneath his skin.

Dwarves don't loathe the sun as much as Loki loathes Baldr.

One of the reasons is, of course, envy.

No surprise there, the trickster knows his own nature. Of course he wouldn't say that out loud, but he's quite sure, that most people already know.

But they don't know, just how envious he is.

Loki is the one, who does all the shit work for the Aesir! Not Baldr! Yet he gets all the praise and love, even though all he does is being a hippie and making decisions that can't be undone! So why does Sunny Boy get all the love and positive attention?! That's so unfair, it's physically painful!

But that's not the only reason for his envy.

Óðinn is nothing, if not a loving father, Loki knows this. The Allfather loves all of his many children equally, although he has the stupidest way of showing it.

But he doesn't love all of Loki's children.

Once upon a time, Loki and Óðinn mixed their blood and vowed brotherhood, swearing to treat the other's children as their own. But apparently that doesn't go for Fenrir, Jörmungandr and Hel. The trickster knows, that the triplets are dangerous, but that's no excuse for their treatment!

There has been a time, when the trickster loved Baldr and Höðr like they were his own. But that was before his own children were banished. The twins know nothing; they were toddlers back then. And if the Æsir refuse to tell them about it, why should he?

It doesn't matter anyhow.

Loki will do anything to send them to Hel. And it will be the greatest satisfaction to see the horror on the Æsir's faces and hurt Óðinn and Frigg in the worst way possible.

.

Baldr is sitting on the roof of his house and judging by the position of the moon, it's almost midnight.

It's wonderfully quiet, when everyone is asleep. It relaxes him, when he is shaken from a nightmare.

Normally, he would go and cry on his brother's shoulder, but he doesn't want to wake him.

So sitting on his roof and watching the moon and stars is the second option.

He feels a presence behind him and smiles lopsidedly: “Why am I not surprised, that you got through the barrier on my house?”

A slightly higher, more feminine voice retorts: “Maybe it's because there is nothing I cannot do? And what about you? Why am I not surprised, that you're doing something as dangerous as sitting on a roof, instead of lying with your wife?”

Baldr laughs softly and finally turns around: “What is this I see? Loki actually seeking my company and talking to me? What a sensation!”

Loki snorts: “And what is this I hear? Irony from the mouth of the paragon of perfection? Never thought I would live to see that moment!”

The blond rolls his eyes: “We both know, that I will never be perfect, no matter how hard I try. But seriously; how did you get in? The force field around my property is supposed to keep out everyone with malicious or improper intent.”

The redhead smirks: “Please, I know what spells Frigg used to put the barrier up. And for every spell in the world, there is a counter spell to match.”

“Huh. Figures.”

It's only now that Baldr notices, that Loki is floating in mid-air – he must be wearing his air-walking shoes.

“Mind if I sit with you?”, the trickster asks.

“You already invaded my property and didn't ask my permission.”

“Good point.”

Baldr moves over and allows Loki to sit next to him.

He can't decide, if he's happy, that his “uncle” is actually initiating a conversation for once, or if he's suspicious as to why.

Loki sees no point in dispelling the other's suspicions.

“What are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”, he questions. “Couldn't deal with your nightmares again?”

“That and I wanted to see the night sky one last time, before I die.”

“So you know.”

“You already knew, that I know.”

The fire giant frowns. “You're oddly casual about it. After all that fuss about your nightmares.”

He receives a frown in return.

“Uncle, there is a difference between knowing that you're going to die no matter what, and suffering from perpetual sleep-deprivation.”

“Yes, I suppose there is.”

They fall back into silence for a while.

Baldr is the first to speak again: “So, what gives me the honour of you finally talking to me, uncle? You have never done that before.”

Loki shrugs: “I'll be honest for once; I don't know.”

Another moment of awkward silence.

Finally, the Bright One notes: “The stars are very beautiful tonight.”

Loki chuckles: “Yes, but that's nothing special to me. If I want to see the stars, I just need to look at my wife. She has the night sky in her hair.”

Sigyn, Baldr's starry-haired half-sister.

Baldr doesn't like how shrewish and abrasive she is, but she is also the most reliable, selfless person he knows.

It's a matter of fact, that Loki is a terrible husband; often absent, treacherous, a liar and definitely a pervert. But no matter how much his wife gives him hell for his nonsense, he can count on her unwavering strength and loyalty, for better or worse. Baldr wishes his own wife was half that loyal (as if he didn't know about her tryst with his brother Hermóðr), then again he has done nothing to earn her loyalty either.

He is about to ask, if the shapeshifter loves Sigyn, but then Loki continues: “In fact, dare I say, that the night sky in all its splendour could never measure up to Sigyn's hair.”

Baldr smiles; that's all the answer he needs. “So you do love her.”

The trickster chuckles.

He will never be able to tell his wife these words, but it's a truth everyone is aware of. When and why his tomboyish wife decided, that he is worth travelling all nine worlds for, is beyond him. But it is so. The ornament around his neck too severely proves it.

Of course Baldr has noticed the necklace Loki is wearing.

“I like your necklace”, he tells the older god. And immediately wishes he didn't: Loki's smile disappears and is replaced by a scowl.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” The fire giant's voice is cold.

“It really is. There is just something about it, that makes it better than Brisingamen.”

That seems to mollify the older god.

“You're damn right. It's the best one in all nine worlds. I wouldn't give it up for anything.”

“May I hold it? Just for a moment?”

Loki's eyes narrow. But then he relents and takes it off. “If I didn't know, that your hands are so careful, I wouldn't agree to this. Consider this the last and only favour I will ever do to you.”

Baldr beams at him and takes it gingerly. To him this is more than just a favour.

The necklace lies comfortably in his glowing hand.

Now that he sees it up close and touches it with his own fingers, he can tell, what makes it so beautiful: it's self-made. Only the gold bordering is dwarf's work. This piece of jewellery has a personality, which Brisingamen lacks. Each component has a story, he can feel it.

“Do you want to know, what it is?”

It's not a question.

“I'm all ears”, Baldr agrees. If Loki wants to tell him the story, who is he to refuse?

So Loki begins to explain: “This necklace was a gift from Sigyn … and from my children.”

“Not Nari and Narfi, I assume?”

“No. Not them.”

Loki sighs heavily and Baldr marvels; he has never heard the older god sigh before.

Then he elaborates: “The carved tooth is from my eldest son Fenrir. The bordered green scale comes from my second son Jörmungandr. And the curl of black and blonde hair belongs to my daughter Hel. The golden chain is from my wife. And she is the one, who made this.”

Oh.

Baldr feels not just a little uncomfortable, as he gives the necklace back to Loki, who immediately puts it back onto his neck, where it belongs.

“I didn't know they're your children”, the Bright One whispers.

“Of course you didn't!”, the trickster spits scornfully. “Your family talks about bravery in battle, but they would never gather up the spine to tell you about all the crap they've pulled!”

Loki can tell, that Baldr wants to ask what he means, but fears to anger him even more.

“Why don't you ask my daughter dear?”, he hisses, “After all, you will join her soon! I'm sure, she will be delighted to tell you, what happened back then!”

“By soon you mean tomorrow, I assume?”

That question is so sudden, that the fire giant forgets his anger.

“Yes and no”, he explains, “Travelling down there takes a while. And you won't be able to without the funeral rites. She told me so, last time I spoke to her. And that she has already prepared everything for your arrival.”

Charming.

“I'm honoured”, Baldr replies and Loki is surprised by how genuine that sentence is.

“I seriously don't understand how you're so calm about it. How are you so cavalier about the fact, that I am going to murder you tomorrow?”

“Today”, Baldr corrects and points at the clock tower near his father's hall Valhalla. It's almost 1am now. “And it's rather bold of you to assume, that I'm not angry.”

“I didn't say that. But do you not hate me? Knowing that I will be the one to send you to my daughter's realm?”

The blond shakes his head. “No. I do not hate you. I'm not even angry, because you want to kill me. It's something else, that ticks me off.”

“Oh? Do enlighten me!”

So he does: “What makes me angry is that you want to pull my twin into this. I'm not afraid to die – not even averse to it. And if you don't want to tell me, why you hate me so much, fine. But tricking Höðr into killing me, knowing that it will break him, that he will have to live with the guilt, until my father spawns another child, specifically to kill him? For that I would hit you.” A wry smile. “But I have never done such a thing before, so I'd probably punch like a little girl.”

Loki cackles: “Oh my! Looks like Asgard's golden boy has something in him after all!”

“Whatever you say, uncle.”

The cackling stops abruptly. “Don't call me that.”

The younger god smiles apologetically.

The red-haired trickster glares at him.

“Norns, how I hate, when you make that face! Actually, I hate everything about you.”

Oh my dad, here it comes, Baldr thinks and readies himself for a torrent of hatred.

Of course he could ask the redhead to just tell him that he hates him and be done with it. But he knows that Loki needs to get this off his chest, so he will listen.

“I despise you, boy”, the fire giant snarls.

“My contempt for you is beyond words. If I could, I would set you on fire, watch you die a slow and agonising death and I would laugh. I hate your pretty face. Hearing your voice makes me want to retch. Everyone adores you, but what exactly have you done to earn it? What gave them the idea, that you're perfect?! You! Don't make me laugh! We both know the truth, don't we? Pathetic, that's what you are! You call yourself a pacifist, but in truth you're just a coward, who pats himself on the back. Why your verdicts are final is a mystery to me – no matter how wise you are, even you can be wrong sometimes – and boy, can that ever be fatal! I have given the Æsir far more than you ever have! I tricked the dwarves into forging the greatest treasures for you! When have I ever got so much as a thanks from them?! And you! You just say a single word and all eyes are on you! When a giant threatens Asgard, it's either Freyja or you they want, because you're oh so fucking pretty! What everyone perceives as perfection is just a facade! You can't even deal with your nightmares – seriously, it's always the same one, shouldn't you be used to it by now? And your family life! My roller coaster of a marriage with Sigyn is more functional than you and Nanna! The only thing that keeps you two together is your son and your fear of scandal! The way you always act so cheerful makes me sick! You're more depressed than your mother is, but at least she has the excuse of knowing the future! And you still pretend, that everything is sunshine and rainbows and it pisses me off! How is it, that I am the liar here, when you are the one who's so fake, it hurts?! I can't wait to kill you! They will bawl their eyes out over your corpse and I will stand there and smile upon your body, that's how satisfying it will be! Ooohhh, how I hate you!!!”

Wow.

Baldr never thought, that it's possible to spew so much hatred and envy at once. Then again, there is nothing Loki isn't capable of.

He needs a while to let that sink in, before he responds.

“… I'm impressed. You certainly took me for a ride here.”

“Did I now”, Loki growls.

“Yes.”

“And? What are you going to say about it?”

“Just this: now that you got it off your chest, will you listen to what I have to say?”

The older god sighs: “I suppose I must – it's only fair.”

Baldr takes a deep breath, then he begins to talk: “I'm sad, that you hate me. You probably already know, just wanted to clear that up. And you are right about two things: my happiness is faked and my marriage is a catastrophe. But let me tell you this – the rest of me is not. If I want to please everyone, it's because their joy delights me. I don't help people, because it's my duty, or because I want praise, I do it, because I enjoy it. I love making others happy. If my own happiness is the price, then so be it. You on the other hand, oh man! Do you ever do something good of your own volition, just for someone else's sake? Something that doesn't involve you causing trouble beforehand? You only got those treasures for us, after you decided that cutting off Sif's hair would be funny. Branding a woman as an adulterer is not funny, Loki.”

“She is, though”, the fire giant mutters. “And guess with whom.”

“Do spare me, I beg you. Besides, it's rather hypocritical of you to lecture me about my marriage. I can't blame Nanna for having an affair, because the Norns know, I'm not remotely close to being the loving husband I should be. By Mimir's head, I can count on one hand, how often I have even slept with her, so of course she would look elsewhere for what I cannot give. But Sigyn can certainly blame you! You must have slept with more people, than you have freckles! You must be – pardon my language – the biggest man-slut in Asgard! Then you're almost never home! No wonder Sigyn is mad at you 24/7! She may be a spitfire, but she's my big sister and she deserves better! Do you have the faintest idea how lucky you are, to be married to the strongest, most loyal woman in all nine worlds?! A woman's loyalty must be earned, but you wouldn't know loyalty, if it slapped you in the face – which I know it does, because she's not some push-over housewife you can treat however you want!”

He takes a deep breath to compose himself.

Loki is gawking at him, which makes him feel incredibly awkward. This has gone too far, really. He didn't mean to talk himself into a rage like that. In his defence though, he just got a hate speech from his uncle/prospective murderer and he really, really needs a nap.

“Do forgive me”, he apologises, “I didn't mean to lash out at you.”

“Are you kidding?!”, the trickster exclaims and bursts into laughter. “You're so much better, when you drop your stupid mask! I didn't think you had it in you!”

Baldr chuckles: “It's easy to drop the masquerade, when you're a dead man. And there is a certain beauty in letting you see it. Do you know why?”

“Because it's easy to be honest to the one, who will kill you. There is no need to keep up a facade in front of your future murderer.”

Baldr smiles and nods. He is glad, that his uncle understands.

“I'm truly sorry, that you hate me”, he tells him softly. “I really wish we could get along.”

The other compresses his scarred lips into a thin line.

“Not a chance, Baldr Óðinnsón. I hate you and you must and will die.”

“I know.”

Loki hates, how world-weary, how okay with dying this young man is.

And he hates even more, that he hates it. Because it makes him aware of something, that terrifies him. It's so terrifying, that his hands begin to tremble in his lap.

He quickly digs his fingers into his trousers to hide it, but the blondie has already noticed and is looking at him with concern.

“Don't you dare pity me!”, he hisses venomously.

“I'm not pitying you”, Baldr tells him gently. “I'm feeling compassionate. Don't confuse pity with compassion.”

“I don't want either!”

“I know, I know. But I can't help it. I told you, I do not hate you like you hate me.”

Loki really wants to wipe that disgusting, sweet smile off the boy's face.

“I'm glad, that it's you, uncle.”

“I told you no- wait, what?!”

Baldr tries not to laugh at the trickster's flabbergasted expression.

“Did I shock you? Sorry, I mean to say … I'm glad that you're the one to send me to Hel, because …  well, you hate me and you won't feel guilty for killing me. I hate when people feel guilty, because of me. Stupid logic, I know. But I wouldn't want it to be anyone else. That's one of the reasons, why it angers me so, that you want to instrumentalise my brother. If it was just you, I could easily forgive you-”

“I don't want your fucking-”

“Let me finish! If it was just you, I could easily forgive you. Because I'm currently so resigned to my fate, that I don't even care anymore. I just want it all to end. In a way, you're doing me a favour.”

“… You're insane.”

Baldr snorts: “No, that would be you. I'm just depressed and world-worn. Also very much sleep-deprived. And it's 2am, so I haven't had my morning coffee either.”

“You're definitely insane”, Loki insists.

“Probably”, the other gives in. “Not that it matters now.”

He still has a few questions though.

“What are you doing up anyway?”

“I have nightmares too, boy. But unlike you, I don't whine to everyone about it.” A huff. “Then again, the only one who cares is Sigyn.”

“I do too.”

“That's because you're a goody-two-shoes. You would care, if a rock had nightmares.”

“Well, you're a bipedal fire, so close enough.”

“Well, you're a bipedal firefly.”

The Bright One chortles. That's certainly a funny way to describe the way he glows!

Then, as he turns his gaze back to the stars, he remembers another thing he always wanted to know.

“Loki?”

“Hm?”

“Where do the stars come from?”

“Ah, I remember that. Your father and his brothers made most of them. They used to be sparks from the flames of Múspellheimr, where I come from. But some of them are my creation.”

He points up to a particularly bright star.

“See that one? I'm the one who made it, it burns through me. It used to be called Lokabrenna, but the humans call it Sirius now.”

Baldr beams at him in delight, because Sirius just so happens to be one of his favourite stars.

Loki's grin turns into a bittersweet smile. “You should have seen your father back then. What a man! I couldn't help but like him immediately. The way we were back then … we had so much in common!”

The younger god can feel the sadness and nostalgia radiating from the older. He doesn't find it hard to believe him; even today, Óðinn sometimes still has a roguish twinkle and laughter in his grey eye, though it becomes rarer and rarer to see. It's no wonder Loki was hooked, when the two were younger.

He sighs: “You know, his smile back then looked just like yours. It was full of warmth and integrity. You and your brother got that from him.”

That sentence takes the god of light by surprise; he always thought, that he got it from his mother.

But he has no time to ponder on it, because Loki shocks him by starting to cry.

“Shit”, the trickster mutters and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “I promised myself to never shed a tear over this! And in front of you too!”

Baldr fishes a paper tissue out of his pocket and hands it to him. Of course he doesn't get a thank you, but Loki is the last person he'd expect one from anyway.

“Fuck you! Your twin and your father too!”, the redhead rasps randomly.

At this point it sounds rather forced, but Baldr doesn't voice that.

“I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

Loki freezes, when the younger god embraces him. Once he realises what is going on, he is tempted to push the blond off the roof and test, if gravity has also sworn an oath, but he doesn't. Instead he allows himself to weep – silently; he refuses to be a bawling, snivelling mess. He feels the other's left hand pat his upper back in comfort.

The awareness from earlier returns full force and the trickster hates it with all his might.

Most of the gods aren't aware of it, but he's actually just a little older than Óðinn (a few decades, maybe). He knows the Æsir so well. He can count on one hand how many of the Allfather's children he hasn't known since their childhood.

He was there, when the twins were born, even got to hold them in his arms. Back then he loved them. That time is long gone now and he hates them both, he hates almost all of Óðinn's children at this point.

“I hate you! Go to fucking Helheim!”

“I know and I will”, Baldr responds way too gently. “Also, love you too, uncle.”

“How dare you-”

“Shhhhh.”

It takes a while for Loki to calm down. When he eventually does, he winds himself out of Baldr's hug and clears his throat.

“Alright, this is enough. More of this sap and I'll puke.”

Baldr knows, when it's better to shut up.

They fall back into silence, but it's more comfortable this time.

It's already past 3am, when he speaks up: “One last question.”

Loki groans and rolls his eyes, but consents.

“Will your daughter be kind?”

Or will she take whatever grudge she has out on me? - the trickster can hear the untold part of the question in the boy's voice.

He thinks for a moment.

If he knows his daughter at all, she won't take her grudges on Óðinn out on Baldr. She could and would be in the right, if she did. But she wouldn't. Hel is bigger than that – besides Baldr is the purest being in Asgard (as much as Loki loathes to admit it). And Hel really likes cute, beautiful things (she got that from her mother, he remembers).

Of course he could tell Baldr, that she would make his afterlife Náströnd, but for some reason he chooses to be honest.

“Well, unlike the rest of Asgard, you and your brother don't actually have a skeleton in your closet, so you have nothing to fear. She is a just goddess. You will be in good hands with her. In fact, dare I say that, if you can look past her appearance, you will even like her.”

Baldr feels significantly more at ease hearing these words.

Enough at ease, that he chortles, when Loki adds: “Just don't mention the Christians. Or horses; the only horse she likes is Sleipnir.”

“Noted.”

All of the sudden Baldr yawns – once again overwhelmed by a wave of fatigue, that reminds him of his sleep-deprivation.

“My soul for good sleep!”, he jokes.

Loki smirks at him: “That can be arranged – I'm sure your soul is valuable enough to service as appropriate payment.”

The god of light bursts into laughter.

Once he settles down, he smiles at the redhead. “I haven't laughed this much in years. Thank you, uncle.”

Loki doesn't chide him this time.

Instead, and much to his surprise, he rolls his eyes and huffs: “Sleep, boy. I'll see to it, that your last nap in Heaven will be peaceful.”

It takes Baldr a second to realise, that the fire giant is inviting him to rest his head on his shoulder.

He wants to say no and tell the older to go to sleep of his own, instead of spending the rest of the night on this roof with him. But he is just so incredibly tired, that he allows himself to be selfish for once in his life.

The trickster's scorching temperature seeps through the fire-proof clothing and somehow it makes the Bright One feel like he's wrapped in a warm blanket. He's asleep within seconds.

Loki notices how the younger man's body relaxes and slumps against his right side. And of course he has also noticed, how the other's glow intensified, when he laughed genuinely.

He sighs, wraps an arm around the other's shoulder and glares down at the shock of platinum blond hair.

I hate you and your children, Óðinn. But what I hate even more, is that I love them as well.

.

---

.

“Forgive your enemies, but never forget their names.”

[dictionarywrites]

Like The Sun Married The Moon

4.5k. Complete. Rated T. DashingFrost. 

A little 5+1 style story: five times the Avengers noticed Loki maybe had a secret, and one time it came out.

Then going back through the six in reverse.

My Ao3 | Send requests | Tip jar!

One: Tony Stark

It’s not that Tony’s interested. He’s not.

It’s just that Loki’s been here on Earth for what, nearly a year now? And he’s so comfortable. So confident. Sure, he’s under whatever spell that stops him from hurting people, and that’s the only reason they can really trust him, but the guy is just such a card.

Tony watches him as he laughs, taking a slow sip from his wine glass: the party’s buzzing, and Tony knows who invited him, because, yeah, Tony’s known all across New York in all the rich circles, and as much as he can get annoyed with stuffed shirts and demanding rich girls, a party is a party. But who the Hell invited Loki? This is an event with some of the richest, most upper-class people in New York, and Loki gets an allowance from SHIELD, but it’s nothing super impressive.

Loki can see Tony watching him, and he arches one dark eyebrow, raising his glass.

Tony strides across the room, and Loki murmurs quiet words to the men he’s speaking to, all fashionable guys with coiffed hair and floral shirts, and he comes closer. Loki’s well-dressed for the occasion, at least: he wears a suit in some kinda pastel lilac, the white shirt open and baring the column of his neck to the room at large. And the hair… God, Loki’s hair had been gross when they’d first seen him, greased back from his head, but now it’s well-washed and healthy, tied up in a loose bun with a few strands hanging around his face, the style effortlessly graceful. A new piece of jewellery shines through the shell of Loki’s ear, and a silver stud shines through the side of his nose.

(“Ooh, loving the new look, Reindeer Games. What, taking the time to rebel now that you’re out of the house?” Loki had laughed, the sound loud and wild and free.

“No one pierces anything on Asgard – even earrings are clipped on or held with magic. I could never do this before.” And that… That’d been wild, to hear from a guy nearly three thousand years old. Still new experiences to be found, even at his age.)

“You look like you’re having a good time,” Tony says mildly.

“I am,” Loki replies. He holds his wineglass like the prince he is, his grip delicate on the glass stem, and when he swills the liquid inside, the motion is practised and almost thoughtless, as if it’s pure instinct that makes him do it. “I like parties.”

“Really?” Tony asks, leaning back slightly. “Didn’t have you pegged for a big occasions guy.” Tony’s sarcasm only makes Loki smile, and he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What, you looking for a rich girl to take you home?”

“No,” Loki murmurs, slowly shaking his head. His gaze is momentarily far away, a little sadness shining in his eyes. It’s weird – Loki’s been planet-side for ten months, all-in-all, and he honestly avoids every single one of the Avengers when he’s not at work. Tony keeps vague tabs on him, knows that he keeps himself to himself in his little apartment in Brooklyn, knows that he uses his allowance just to get groceries (guy’s a health food nut, who knew?) and saves the rest, but Loki… It’s not easy to track him. Tony knows he goes places, and meets people, but it’s all but impossible to keep a surveillance on him, and yet he never wants to hang out with the guys from work. Tony doesn’t feel like he knows much more about Loki than he did when the guy first attacked New York. “I don’t partner myself with women these days.”

“Oh,” Tony says, feeling his eyebrows raise despite himself. Shit. “That, uh— How is Asgard? On the whole, um, the whole gay thing?”

“Not good,” Loki answers plainly. “But Asgard isn’t so good on me. It never has been.” Tony reaches up, dragging his fingers over the side of his mouth, feeling the warmth of his own hand against his lips. Loki’s hot. Tony knows Loki’s hot, and he knows damn well that he’s hot himself, and really, there’s no shame in trying—

“You know, uh, I’m not— We could always, uh…” Loki is staring at him, blinking slowly, and then he chuckles. The sound begins low in his throat, dark and slightly foreboding, and when he reaches out, patting the side of Tony’s cheek, his fingers are freezing cold. The condescension should piss Tony off, but instead it makes heat burst in his chest.

“I think not, Stark,” Loki murmurs.

“You know, it’s been nearly a year. I think Tony works. Or— Anthony, right? You wanna call me Anthony?”

“Anthony,” Loki repeats softly. His smile is nothing but fond, despite how patronising his tone had been a second ago, and he draws his hand neatly back, drawing his hand over his hair, tucking a loose strand of dark hair away from his face. “Don’t take this as an insult, but Midgardians… You are so fragile, and all of you so young. Such an interspecies union might be something Thor would take to easily, but not I.”

“We must all seem like babies to you,” Tony murmurs.

“Not babies,” Loki murmurs. “You are adults, each of you. But… Different. As a wolf is different to a fox.” And then Loki is moving across the room, taking up a conversation with a pretentious artist Tony always tries to avoid talking to himself: they greet each other like they’re old friends, touching one another’s arms, and it’s—

Weird.

Loki’s weird. But in a good way, Tony thinks, rejection aside.

Two: Steve Rogers

Loki isn’t a good man. Steve knows that. He’s also not as bad as Steve had thought in the beginning.

Loki is weaving magic upon the air, and every single kid in the classroom is watching raptly, every one of them staring up at the shimmering energy that gathers between Loki’s hand, making up the petals of a shining, transparent flower of gold and silver. It’s artful, poetic – it’s one of the most beautiful things Steve’s ever seen, and he still thinks of it an hour later, when the Avengers are done with the school visit, and when everybody else has started splitting off in different directions. And yet Loki… Loki has a faraway look in his eyes, a kind of sadness, and Steve falls into step beside him.

It’s funny – Loki works with the Avengers, and he’s one of them, sure, but Steve never sees him outside of their official appearances, or when they’re dragged into a fight. Loki’s a solitary kind of guy, it seems.

“You want kids?” Steve asks. Loki turns to him, surprise showing on his face.

“I have children,” Loki says. Steve stares at him, and Loki gives him an awkward smile, shrugging his shoulders. “I am once widowed, once divorced, Captain Rogers. Four of my children yet live, and two are long-since dead.”

Jeeze. No wonder the guy’s sad and distracted.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I didn’t, um, I didn’t realise.”

“It’s alright,” Loki murmurs, his hands in his pockets. He’s comfortable in Earth clothes, it seems to Steve – more comfortable than Steve feels sometimes, with the subtle differences to the clothes he grew up with. “Perhaps I shall have more, one day. I don’t know.”

“You got anyone in mind to settle down with?” Steve asks, and it comes out so quickly, the flirtation hanging on the air. Loki smiles.

“Yes,” he says, and Steve reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. Every time he thinks he knows something about this guy, it seems like he’s proved wrong.

“God, really just putting my foot in my mouth again and again today, huh?” Loki reaches out, and his cold fingers gently pat the side of Steve’s shoulder. He says nothing, and walks away.

Thing is… What, the guy’s got somebody in mind? Who?

Three: Clint Barton

“You ever gonna tell ‘em?” Clint asks. They’re in the laboratory in Avengers Tower, and Loki glances up from where he’s bent over some engineering schematics, making adjustments to some old designs they’d dug out of the SHIELD archives. Loki’s an engineer, it turns out – as good an engineer as Clint himself, even if he’s not gonna be patenting a million inventions any time soon.

“Tell them what?” Loki asks. He keeps his distance from Clint, and Clint likes it that way. It’s… Weird. The connection to Loki has been broken, Clint’s sure of that, but sometimes it’s like there’s a lingering instinct hovering in the back of his mind, to fall into step beside Loki, to obey orders…

Clint hates it. He hates following orders, hates the way he feels like he should be swearing fealty to Loki some days, but Loki doesn’t rub it in. He’d apologised, a few weeks after getting thrown down to Midgard, and offered Clint whatever “boon” he wanted, and Clint had just said to leave him alone – and Loki had.

“There’s— I don’t know what it is, who it is,” Clint says. “But there’s someone else. Someone you’re connected to, not Thor, not your mom. Someone else.”

“I’m not going to tell them,” Loki says at length. Clint reads the words on his thin lips, and inexplicably, they make him sad.

“No one hates you, you know,” Clint says. “Not even me. You can trust the Avengers. They’ll all have your back.” Loki’s lips twitch, and he looks up from the schematics, looking at Clint seriously. There’s a short pause as Loki seems to think over what Clint’s said, and then he brings his fingers up to his mouth and chin before bringing his palm outward: Thank you.

Clint didn’t know the guy could sign.

Four: Natasha Romanov

“Truth, or dare,” Nat says, leaning back in her seat, and Loki watches her for a long few moments, his lips quirking into a little smile. The party’s chilled out – sitting around the table, it’s Nat, Loki, Thor, Bruce and Clint, and it’s… It’s almost normal. Almost normal. It’s weird, to settle into the American lifestyle and just hang out with people after work, but today… Today had been pretty rough.

Maybe that’s why they’re all getting drunk together, playing stupid college games, so that none of them has to be alone with their own thoughts – maybe that’s why Loki had stuck around instead of slinking home like he usually does; maybe that’s why Tony had latched onto the excuse of Thor being down on Earth to celebrate.

“Truth,” Loki says.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Nat asks, mildly. “You’re a God of Lies, right?”

“Equally, I am a God of Truth,” Loki says. “I am worshiped for deceit on three planets, but for honesty on three more.” Nat glances to Thor, wanting to judge if this is true on his face, but there’s something pinched about his expression, as if Thor doesn’t know if this is true or not. Loki isn’t looking at Thor; Thor is looking right at Loki, a kind of tired melancholy in his eyes.

“You’re worshiped on more planets than Earth?” Clint asks. “How many?”

“I believe it’s Ms Romanov’s turn to ask her question,” Loki murmurs softly. Thor stands abruptly from the couch, walking across the room to join Sam and Steve in the kitchen, and Loki presses his lips loosely together, closing his eyes for a second. He looks hurt. So does Thor.

Something easy, then – something simple.

“How many times you been married?” Nat asks.

“Three,” Loki answers cleanly, and then he walks away.

Five: Thor

“Is that true?” Thor asks quietly. “You are worshiped as a deity of honesty, on some worlds?”

“Yes,” Loki answers. It ails Thor, to see his brother so easily settled upon Midgard – he ought be glad, to see his brother finally so comfortable in his skin, to see Loki look almost content, but—

He hates it. Hates having Loki so far from Asgard, exiled forevermore; hates to see Loki with pieces of metal piercing through his ears and his nose, hates seeing Loki in foreign clothes and looking comfortable in them. Thor thinks of the times Loki would disappear from Asgard for years at a time, for decades at a time… He thinks of the time he had sought Loki out on the strange planet known as Koom, where Loki was lecturing in applied mathematics, and how Loki had reluctantly returned home with him after nearly eighty years; he recalls finding Loki in a flour mill on the planet Jafara, alone and unfriended, and how Loki had slunk back to Asgard as a cowed dog; he recalls the most recent time, on the golden sands of Hashtor, where Thor had said “Come home,” and Loki had laughed, and retorted, “I am home.”

“I wish you could come home,” Thor says softly.

“This is my home now,” Loki says. The two of them stand on a balcony, overlooking New York City, and Thor feels his heart ache. “How fare the Warriors Three?”

“Well,” Thor says quietly, thinking of how different it is, to travel the Nine Realms without Loki amongst them. It is preferable, in some ways – there is no mischief to be found, but in others… It feels stilted, unnatural, as if there is a part of them missing. Even Volstagg had agreed.

But it can never be the way it once was.

“And your parents?” Loki asks. The words cut Thor like a knife.

“Our parents,” Thor says, sharply. Loki draws away from him, and then he delicately shakes his head.

“No, Thor,” Loki says softly. “Your parents.”

“You would isolate yourself from all who love you,” Thor snaps, feeling fury flare within him. “Here you are, amongst these people, and do you allow any of them to be your friend? Once more, Loki, you have made yourself alone, and to what end?”

“Have you ever considered that I like my solitude?” Loki asks, his voice unerringly calm and cool. “You are glad to be a member of a rollicking band: I prefer to be alone.”

“You lie so much,” Thor mutters. “You deceive even yourself.”

“Perhaps,” Loki murmurs. “Sometimes a lie is kinder than the truth.” Thor cannot take it, and he stalks away, and when he returns, Loki is gone – back to his apartment on the other side of the city, where no one will speak to him, where no one will ask things of him.

Of course. Such is how it is.

There is no limit to how many secrets Loki will keep, if he is able.

Six: Bruce Banner

Loki lies very still in the infirmary bed, laid on his back. His eyes are closed, and Bruce leans over, gently patting the god’s face to try to get him to wake up. Loki groans in quiet pain, and Bruce presses his lips together, leaning away from him. Whatever Loki had done to win them the fight – and yeah, it had definitely been Loki who got them out of it, because he’d turned the damned demon to dust, and then dropped to the ground like a stone – it had taken a lot out of him.

Bruce knows it, because he can see all of Loki now. His true body is showing: the skin is a deep blue, with indents and markings on the skin, and there are scars all over his body. Dappled wet scars that must have been caused by acid are visible around Loki’s eyes, and there are pockmarks and tears around his lips, where once somebody sewed them shut.

But the weirdest thing isn’t that Loki doesn’t look like an Æsir anymore, or that Loki has scars. The weirdest thing is on his right hand, where a golden band shines on his ring finger, catching the light.

(“You’ve been married before, right?” Bruce had asked once. “Do you guys wear wedding rings?”

“No, that is a Midgardian tradition,” Loki had said quietly, but a little smile had caught on his lips, and he’d kept it for the rest of the day.)

The doors to the infirmary burst open, and Bruce presses his lips together. Loki is just beginning to stir into consciousness, and Bruce had hoped to get him awake before Thor arrived – but there’s a reason Bruce had sent word to Asgard as soon as Loki had gone down.

“Thor, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be fine,” Bruce says. “He just—” Bruce freezes. The man striding into the room, his armour clinking, is not Thor. He has a muss of blond hair around his head, and a moustache and a little beard. “Uh, you can’t be—”

“Fandral,” Loki whispers, and he weakly raises his head, leaning into the gloved hand that cups his cheek. The stranger – Fandral – is leaning over the bed, and his expression is tortured, his brown eyes shining with pain. “I’m fine, you needn’t… You needn’t fuss so.” Loki is speaking hoarsely, and it looks like just talking is hurting him.

Bruce pours him a glass of water, taking a step forward, but before he can offer it out, Fandral has thrown both of his gauntlets messily onto the ground, and he takes the glass with a surprisingly soft hand, tipping Loki’s head up to take a sip of the water. Bruce doesn’t miss the glint of silver on his left hand, a ring…

God. Fandral turns away from Loki, giving Bruce a serious, consternated look.

“Healer,” he says quietly. “What ails him?”

“Best guess?” Bruce asks, awkwardly. “Magical exhaustion.”

“Correct,” Loki mutters. “I just need rest.”

“And you shall have it,” Fandral murmurs. Setting the glass aside, he moves to cup Loki’s cheek, tracing over the blue skin with gentle fingers. “I was so— Thor and Sif are abroad in Muspelheim, so t’was I that received the missive before it was brought to your mother… I ought to have come sooner.”

“I was your king,” Loki says quietly. “And you betrayed me.”

“And you didn’t betray me in kind?” Fandral demands, his tone harsh even as his fingers brush featherlight over his cheek. “Throwing yourself from the Bifrost like that, disappearing… I thought you dead. I mourned for you, in silence, knowing no one else could know the grief I bore.”

Bruce feels like he’s intruding, but he really has nowhere else to go. He can’t exactly walk out: there isn’t another doctor around just now, and he doesn’t want Loki on his own. He makes himself busy, looking at charts and Googling basic shit on his laptop, but beside him, it continues.

“And then when you were sent here, to Midgard, as punishment… I ought have resigned my commission immediately,” Fandral whispers. “I ought have retuned to Midgard once more, to be with you.”

“You can’t give up Asgard for me,” Loki whispers. “I can never go back.”

“Then I shan’t either,” Fandral promises, the words ringing through the room. And then he kisses Loki, soundly on the mouth, chaste but full of feeling, and Bruce wonders when the best time would be to interrupt them. He decides to wait until they stop kissing.

It takes a while.

Six: Bruce Banner

“Secretly married, huh?” Bruce asks a few days later, and Loki looks him in the face, taking in the lines of his expression, the uncertainty as he offers Loki a pill to take. Loki swallows it, tasting its bitterness on his tongue.

“I never imagined he could still love me,” Loki whispers. “After all that had happened.”

Bruce glances at him, and he hesitates for only a moment before he says, “Doesn’t seem like he’s the type of guy to back down once he loves something.”

“No,” Loki agrees. “That he is not.”

Fandral is arm-wrestling Sam Wilson, and the two of them are both as charming as the other, exchanging easy, comfortable words over their sport. The two of them seem evenly matched, with their strengths – Loki knows this is but another layer of charm on Fandral’s part, pretending himself to be weaker than he is.

His heart feels warm in his cool chest.

Five: Thor

Loki stands in between Fandral and Thor, shielding Fandral’s body with his own: he can feel Fandral’s heavy breathing against the back of his neck, feel himself shake, and he looks Thor in the eyes, unwavering.

The rage on his brother’s face is unspeakable, indescribable, and Loki stiffens further, keeping himself in place.

“How long?” Thor asks – nay, demands.

“Around a century,” Loki says. “We— You recall when I was gone for five years, and you retrieved me from Hashtor, the planet with the golden spires, and Fandral had been on a sojourn to Midgard? Fandral was with me. The whole time.”

“We couldn’t tell you,” Fandral says from behind Loki’s shoulder, but he isn’t foolish enough to step out. “Asgard would never accept a marriage between two men, least of all of its prince, and a member of its nobility.”

“So you hid it,” Thor growls. “So you hid it, from me, your brother, and you, Fandral – I thought us the greatest of friends!”

“And if you thought I was using our friendship to abuse your brother?” Fandral asks, his charming voice surprisingly sharp. “You would not have jumped to such a conclusion?” Thor freezes, for a second, and a little of the rage seems to fade from his eyes. “Thor… I love you, my friend, but we could not risk being discovered. There was no way to predict how the people of Asgard, how the Allfather, would respond.”

“Now, of course,” Loki says softly. “Such things are immaterial.”

“You mean to stay here, then?” Thor asks, looking past Thor, to Fandral himself. “With him?”

“Yes,” Fandral says. “A century in secrecy, and here… Honesty.”

“A shame, Loki, that you no longer consider us brothers,” Thor says at length.

“Who says I don’t?” Loki demands, surprised by the emotion cracking in his own voice. “We are brothers, Thor, through bond if not in blood.” Thor smiles, softly, his eyes glittering with warmth.

“Why, then,” he says in scarce more than a whisper. “Fandral is my brother as well.” Relief bursts in Loki’s chest like a Midgardian firework: he turns his head, catching Fandral’s eye, and when they laugh, it is as one, full to the brim with relief, and understanding, and love.

Four: Natasha Romanov

Three times married, he’d said – three times. Once widowed, from a Jötunn named Angrboða; once divorced, from a Vanir woman when their children had died – Sigyn. And still married, now, to an Æsir: Fandral.

Nat watches as Fandral and Loki sit on a couch together in the common room of the Avengers Tower, Fandral’s boots on Loki’s lap and one of Stark’s tablets in Fandral’s, the two of them playing either side of some game that looks suspiciously like a two-man version of Candy Crush.

Happiness radiates from Loki like heat, and Nat’s never seen him so happy.

He doesn’t avoid the parties any more, or the times when they chill – him and Fandral both come, and when Loki feels like going silent, Fandral talks instead. The guy is bright and flirtatious, always telling a joke, always telling stories, always full of vim.

It’s like the sun and moon have married each other.

Three: Clint Barton

“He’s hot,” Clint says quietly. “Kudos.”

Loki laughs, and he signs and speaks at the same time: “Thank you.”

Two: Steve Rogers

“You know,” Steve says mildly, “You always told me you thought nationalism was stupid.”

“I do,” Loki murmurs, amusement ringing in his tones.

“Oh, so you make fun of me being a patriot,” Steve says, his hand on his chest, “But him—” He gestures to Fandral, who is telling some cock-and-bull story of Asgard’s founding, a story Loki has heard a thousand times before. Loki’s lip twitches.

“No, I think his patriotism is ridiculous as well,” Loki murmurs. “Asgard and America aren’t so dissimilar – in their flaws, or their strengths. In an ideal world, melting pots of culture; in practice, colonial super powers, feared as much as they are loved.”

“He gave it up for you,” Steve points out. He doesn’t say it unkindly – if anything, it is intended as a kindness, and despite the discomfort within him, despite Loki’s uncertainty… Loki nods.

“I am to be worthy of that sacrifice,” Loki whispers: it is a vow.

One: Tony Stark

“You love him?” Tony asks.

“With all my heart,” Fandral murmurs. The two of them stand together, and Tony glances across the room, watching as Loki holds a group of real estate moguls spellbound in some story or other, gesticulating as he speaks. Fandral… Fandral’s a pretty cool guy. Tony had liked him right off the bat, liked his spunk and his easy manner, liked his sense of style.

They click.

“He said before… Asgard isn’t so good on gay people. Men who’re with men; women who’re with women.”

“No,” Fandral murmurs. “Others in the Nine Realms are like Midgard – Alfheim has no issues at all with such things, and Nidavellir couldn’t care less who you might bed. But Asgard has its traditions, its long-held prejudices…” Fandral is watching Loki like Loki is the greatest piece of art he’s ever seen, like he’s forever picking out new details he loves. Fandral’s glittering brown eyes are full of warmth, and his lips curve into a soft smile. “We married on a foreign planet, in the dead of night, beneath the light of two bright moons. We knew it would be a secret for the longest time, and it didn’t matter at all. So long as we shared our bond, all would be well.”

Fandral is turning the silver band on his left hand again and again, in circles around his ring finger’s base with his thumb. On his middle finger, there is another ring, this one made of gold with a red ruby carved into a coat of arms – a signet ring.

“I have been to Midgard once before, you know,” Fandral says softly. “T’was many years ago, many centuries… I fell to England, and could not get home, so I formed a band of good friends, and I married a princess then, too – her name was Marian.”

“Marian,” Tony repeats. “Like— Like Maid Marian?”

“Yes, that was her,” Fandral confirms, like it’s nothing. “They called me—”

“Robin Hood?” Fandral’s eyes widen slightly, and he leans back.

“Yes,” he says.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says. “You know you’re… Famous, right? Like, I know that’s not the same as being a god, but everybody knows who Robin Hood was. You two—” Tony laughs, running his hand through his hair. “God. You really are made for each other, huh?” Fandral smiles, showing his dazzlingly white teeth.

“Yes,” he agrees easily. “I suppose we are.”

Loki is gesturing for Fandral to come over, and Fandral pats Tony’s shoulder as he slips across the room, putting one hand around Loki’s waist and easily falling into conversation with the moguls, like he’s meant to be here. And don’t they look a pair, Loki in his grey suit and Fandral in his gold, don’t they look—

Honestly, is it so bad that Tony could kinda go for both of them?

Huh. Maybe it’s a… Maybe it’s a thought.

FIN.