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“You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.”
~ Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou
Loki felt the mortal’s presence long before she came to a halt beside him. The benefits of having honed his seidr into something semi-sentient. Or would it be better classified as a woe? Maybe the everpresent vigilantism was an unfortunate consequence of his time with the Mad Titan.
Loki wondered if he’d ever be able to rest again, to lay in his bed, buried in the fine silk sheets, and sleep.
These days, with a haunting steadiness, the memory of waking up well-rested after a good night’s sleep was starting to escape him.
“He’s doing well,” Carla offered without prompt, as she always did. “He’s made a few more friends since your last visit. And he’s taken to cooking lunch now.” Loki tried to imagine the old man in the kitchen, chopping vegetables or stirring a goat curry. He found it a failing endeavour. “He has kept up the evening chess routine.”
“I thought he had become bored with it?” Loki asked despite himself. Per his last update, after one Midgardian year of daily chess matches, his interest in the sport had dwindled. It made sense. Mortals, even the smart ones, and he was fairly certain such a number would be few in ‘Shady Acres Care Home’, were no match for the Allfather’s prowess in formulating battle strategies.
“We had a new admission and he a worthy competition,” the mortal said and turned towards him with a mischievous glint in her baby blue eyes. Loki had to physically fight himself to not look away. It wasn’t her fault the natural hue of her orbs resembled the glow of the Other’s sceptre. “Your father lost yesterday’s match.”
An eyebrow ticked up without waiting for his permission. “Did he now?”
“Mm-hmm.” The high ponytail she had swept her light-blonde mane up in bobbed with every up-and-down jerk of her head as she gave a series of vigorous, and somewhat enthusiastic, nods. “He became all red in the nose. We thought we’d have to bodily remove them from each other’s spaces, but then he abruptly deflated and left the hall immediately. He didn’t come out of his room the entire night. But he was fine at breakfast.”
“So he doesn’t remember last evening?”
“More like he doesn’t care about it anymore. He congratulated Billy, that’s the man who won the match, by the way, so memory recall is not an issue here. Maybe he just needed time to cool down?”
Oh, how blissful must ignorance be! “Maybe,” he accepted with a dip of his head even though he was more than a bit sure such wasn’t the case.
It couldn’t be the spell; the incantation Loki had cast on Odin — which was, miraculously enough, still holding up after two years — wasn’t designed to interact with his emotions, only the memories integral to his identity. Loki had simply wished for this man who had raised him like a son to feel a fraction of what he had gone through after his sense of self had been brutally shattered.
Putting him in a Midgardian care home was part catharsis and partly so that he could manoeuvre Asgard’s might the way it required to be done. Odin would have never heeded his warnings and the Gatekeeper would only be happy to toss him into the Void once again and call it a day. Asgard needed to prepare for what was to come — for what was coming — and it couldn’t be achieved with Odin at the helm.
“Forgiveness is hard,” Carla said, derailing his train of thoughts like a compromised track bed. “Taking the first step is hard, but it’s also freeing. Keeping grudges only weighs you down.”
Loki shook his head. She didn’t understand. Nobody ever did. And how could he accept that sort of kindness from a stranger Midgardian when his own people hadn’t shown him that consideration? “It’s not—”
“I don’t know about your equation with your father, Ember, nor will I pretend to. But I know you come here every month, stare at him from afar, donate more than any of our other patrons put together, and leave without approaching him. Ever. And I see the struggle in your eyes; believe it or not, you’re not the first person I’ve met here who isn’t sure of their place in their loved one’s life. Not everybody here is abandoned by their family, some are here because they can’t survive elsewhere. I guess what I’m trying to say is, take that leap of faith. You might be surprised with what it yields.”
Carla patted twice on his back, flashed him a smile that lit up her features like Asgard had been on Thor’s coronation (don’t go there, Loki—) and trotted away when another older woman called out for her, leaving him to return to what he did best.
Observe from the shadows.
And even though Carla had used his Midgardian alias to bestow upon him her two cents, they resonated with a part of him that he had sealed deep within his conscience with care, the words echoing through his head for hours after as he watched his father, the man who raised him and taught him to despise his own race (perhaps he was a monster?), laugh at whatever his companion said.
At that moment, Loki realised he’d never seen the Allfather so carefree and alive before.
Maybe raising a monster as his own child took more out of him than anybody had realised.
💚
Time passed, as it always did. The Sun had now claimed its throne at the apex, refusing to remain on the sidelines for any longer than the world required of it to function, and Loki found himself drifting through the busy streets of New York with as much purpose as the Warriors Three under his rule.
It was odd, walking along the very paths he had nearly destroyed in his quest to escape the Mad Titan’s thumb without tipping the giant off to his plans.
What was perhaps even weirder was how the Midgardians spared one glance at him, if any at all, and decided his worth didn’t stretch further than that. Well, there were a few women and some men who looked his way for a few seconds, but their gazes were more admiring of his form than anything else.
It wasn’t that he was foreign to appreciation for his appearance — he wasn’t; he might not have been the preferred Prince of Asgard but he’d still been a Prince, and besides that, Alfheim and many other realms had always valued the mind more than an aesthetic physique — but he had anticipated a bit more...resistance to him walking freely through the city he had wrought an alien invasion on.
Be it as it was, he might as well have been invisible for all the blind-eye his presence received.
It was invigorating, the power of anonymity fuelling a rush through his veins not unlike Mjolnir did Thor’s flight.
Soon, his step gained a bounce to it and he ventured further out on the main roads. Oak Street, one of the signboards read.
It might have been a couple hours, or perhaps, it simply felt like it due to the burning sun boiling the streets with its unbearable heat (his Jotun biology was certainly doing him no favours), before he came upon ‘Soothing Sanctuary Massage’.
One of the many oddities of Midgard was that services of leisure and other cosmetic treatments were available to everybody for a price, and please do not get him started on the largely free nature of information. Midgardian libraries were accessible to all and weren’t just hoarded by those at the thrones. The planet was, for the most part, a democracy, divided into smaller areas based on their geography and each governed by their respective leaders elected to power by the people. The concept of royal families was virtually nonexistent, and its descendants little more than reminiscent echoes of a bygone era.
It was fascinating.
This parlour, Soothing Sanctuary Massage, seemed to favour methods that alluded to something called ‘Thai’. Loki wasn’t sure what that meant but his unfamiliarity with it only pushed him to test his Fate further.
And really, what was the worst that could happen?
Loki had been presumed dead by most of the Nine Realms, and those aware of the truth would guard it with their lives and honour. The Jotuns rarely left Jotunheim, and with their aversion to anything even remotely warm, they would but suffer a gruesome death in the relatively more humid conditions of Midgard. In this regard, Loki supposed, he should thank the Allfather. It was for his decision to bring a Jotun up as an Asgardian, disregarding the potential consequences an improper diet could have on his health, that he was able to survive in the warmer climate of Midgard.
The only real threat to his life and freedom was Asgard, and even then, none from his so-called 'home' planet had ventured into what they still considered a backwater planet, despite Thor singing high praises of the place. Ever so stubborn in their ways and beliefs, the Asgardians.
So no, Asgard wouldn’t stop turning on its axis and Midgard wouldn’t fall off its nexus position on Yggdrasil if he grabbed a couple hours to himself.
If nothing else, the massage would, at least, aid eliminate the soreness of his muscles caused by traipsing around New York — Queens, it was called, a borough on the outskirts of the city, as Carla had once told him, taking him for a newly moved in resident from England — in the scorching heat for the past however many hours it had been.
💚
“AROON MANOBAN! YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING WHAT I THINK YOU ARE!”
Aroon was having a bad day—
“AROON MANOBAN! WHERE ARE YOU?”
—make that a week—
“AROON MANOBAN! IF I FIND YOU, I’M GOING TO SKIN YOU ALIVE!”
—actually, a year—
“AROON MANOBAN!”
—a life. Aroon was having a bad life. A train wreck of cosmic proportions, and he could use the word cosmic now because Earth wasn’t the only inhabitable planet in the galaxy anymore. It was official, it was scary, and it was freaking awesome!
But that was beside the point.
“Mae! Would you please keep your volume down? I think the whole street can hear you!”
That was a mistake, and it was apparent from the absolute rage that made to take over his devil mother’s sweet features. He could see the smoke coming out of her ears.
“Is that sarcasm I hear, Aroon Manoban?” Her eyes had narrowed into slits that could probably cut through his body as effectively as a laser could.
“Sorry, Mae,” he mumbled, because he might have been a twenty-five-year-old adult but sue him, his mother was terrifying!
“What are you doing here in the storeroom, anyway?” She emphatically waved her hands and nearly knocked over the mop stick resting against the dirty white wall. Of course, since this was the boss lady and not Aroon “good-for-nothing” Manoban, she wasn’t owed a reprimand.
“I needed a, uh—” He slid his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and roamed a gaze over the contents of the tiny room but the desperate franticness of the gesture blocked his mind from truly registering anything his eyes crossed. In the end, he settled for, “dish rag!”
“Why did you want a dish rag?”
“To wipe the dishes?”
“Since when do you wash your own dishes, let alone wipe them?”
“Uh, that’s right. But I’ve been thinking—”
“That’s dangerous.”
He ignored her taunt. “—and I’ve decided that I’m going to help you with the other chores as well.”
His declaration was followed up with a long beat of silence that seemed to stretch from the Pacific to the Indian Ocean and all he wanted to do in the moment was to make a run for it.
Oh, he was so dead.
That moment, however, soon broke and before long, Arpa Manoban was waddling forward with a speed that would put Usain Bolt to shame and brought her tiny body crashing into his relatively bigger one with a sort of adorableness that couldn’t choose but pull Aroon’s lips into a wide grin.
“Oh, my boy!” she cupped his face, her dark-brown eyes shining with an unadulterated love that only mothers, in his opinion, were capable of. “You don’t have to do all that! You’re my little child! I shall take care of you, always!”
“Always?” He arched a teasing brow. “Even when I’m being a ไม่มีอะไรดีเลยผู้แพ้?”
She huffed and peered up from behind her eyelashes, mischief dancing in her gaze as well. “You mean all the time?”
Aroon simply laughed and squeezed her closer. His mother might have been the Devil Reincarnate (copyright to the term shall be acquired as soon as he acquired the necessary resources) but she was his Devil Reincarnate mother, and he wouldn’t trade this cosmic mistake of a life for anything else.
He was snapped out of his reverie by the unmistakable ding of the front door’s bell.
“Oh, we have a customer! Go, Aroon, do your family proud!”
A small chuckle slipped past his tight-pressed lips. “Mae, we give a massage here! We don’t teach them to serve their country!”
“Aroon Manoban, the parlour has been this family’s business for decades now. Your grandfather started it when he came to America with nothing more than ten cents in his bag and lots of determination. Then your father took over, and now you. You shall do us proud. You understand?”
“Yes, Mae.” He ducked his head before she could catch wind of the amusement tugging his lips upwards. His mother liked to act as if taking over their family business was some sort of ancestral rite of passage.
Arpa Manoban was an interesting woman, to say the least.
Making his way to the reception, fully expecting someone hard-pressed for time but still free enough to criticise the Asian aesthetics, he was not prepared for the holy-moly-God-of-Youth-and-Beauty at his doorstep.
He staggered to a halt, his jaw dropping at the sight of the ethereal man sticking out in his little parlour like a sore thumb. No, worse than a sore thumb. Like a sore hand. Full body sore—no, that didn’t make any sense!
The man was British. He oozed Britishness, with his hands politely clasped in the front and the courteous smile on his lips. He had long hair that could do with a little less gel but it was more of an endearing idiosyncrasy, adding to his charm like in the case of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
The man wore an expensive black tux paired with a black pair of trousers, a dark grey shirt and a charcoal tie. Someone had a favourite colour.
“Hello, my name is Ember,” the man said, and Aroon noticed a couple of things.
One, he’d been correct in his judgement. He was British.
Two, he had a terrible, terrible name. This gorgeous man had been done a grave injustice by his mother. He looked nothing like an Ember.
He deserved a more heavenly or royal-ish name like Thomas or William; something to assert his stunning dominance.
Oh, how he’d love to have this man dominate him—
Aroon coughed to himself and plastered a grin that hopefully hid the discomfort steadily taking root in a particular part of his anatomy. Bad, Aroon! Very bad! Don’t be a perverted creep!
“I’m Aroon.” He stuck out a hand which was accepted with visible grace. The man’s palm was large and smooth like he hadn’t worked a day of physical labour. Aroon supposed, given the rest of his posh appearance, it tracked. “How may I help you today, Mr. Ember?”
The man gained the momentary expression of a deer caught in headlights before he papered it over with a smooth efficiency. Aroon wondered what else he could do with that deadly smoothness— Shut up, man!
“I...was hoping for a massage.” The end of his request swithered between a confident statement and a questioning connotation.
“Then you have come to the right place! We have a few different styles we offer. Do you wish for a full body massage or—”
“A full one.”
“In that case, there’s the traditional Thai massage. It’s a combination of pressure, stretching and compression. The hot stone massage makes use of—”
“Nothing heated or warm, please,” he interjected with a frown. After a second, he added, “If that’s possible.”
“Of course, of course. Will lukewarm do or is it a no to that as well?”
“Nothing even remotely warm.”
That significantly stripped him of his choices. No matter. Aroon Manoban would be a bad businessman and masseuse if he didn’t know how to adapt to a customer’s needs, irrespective of how peculiar they were.
“Then I’d recommend the traditional Thai massage. That’s just acupressure, some Indian Ayurvedic principles and assisted yoga postures. It’ll help improve flexibility, circulation and range of motion among other things.”
Ember mulled it over for a minute before shrugging, his soft pink lips curving in a friendly grin. “Whatever you say, Aroon. You’re the expert here.”
On second thought, he’d like to dominate this magnificent God of a man—
💚
Aroon’s fingers were nimble and heavenly as they touched the absolute right spots on his back with an amount of pressure that was uncanny in how correct and appreciated it was. A series of wanton groans had already fallen past his lips, and at this point, Loki was beyond caring. Warmth had become a permanent fixture in his ears, and he was pretty sure a glance in the mirror would reveal flushed cheeks and eyes wide with pleasure.
Contrary to Asgard, he hadn’t been asked to strip though he had been handed a pair of Midgardian shirt and loose trousers because “expensive Gucci outfits aren’t massage friendly, Ember!” That had been an oversight on his part, he admitted. Still, he couldn’t very well wear the garbs he had been offered for obvious hygiene-related purposes. Hence, he had conjured a “massage-friendly” pair for himself in the privacy of the changing room and had slithered his way out of the tight corner by lying through his teeth.
He hadn’t been awarded the title of ‘Silvertongue’ for nothing!
All in all, it was a good utilisation of the stash of his Midgardian currency the source of which, if anyone was interested, would have to be pried from his dead body. He meant that in the literal sense, yes.
So it was going well, and he found himself more relaxed than he had been in years, and that was probably why Norns deemed it appropriate to hurl a superhero-sized curveball in his direction.
“Hey, man! What a pleasant surprise!”
Although this particular figure was quite...small.
Not a runt, no, but young, as if he were a child. He sounded like one too.
“Spiderman!” Aroon exclaimed, all happy and cheerful. The man was certainly chirpy. “Would you like a massage?”
“No, Sir, but thank you!” My, a polite superhero! What were the chances? Loki would be devastated if they turned out to be one of Thor’s sycophants. “I’m on a mission here!”
As due.
Loki pushed himself off the bed — ignoring every part and crevice of his body that cried out at the interruption and demanded they be allowed back on the bed where they laid and consumed oxygen for free — with as slow movements as he was physically capable of. He didn’t know if this perhaps-child was as excitable with a weapon as the rest of those so-called Earth’s mightiest heroes. “Spiderman, was it? Look,” He raised his hands in what he knew Midgard too interpreted as surrender, “I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“Ember?” Aroon frowned. And was that a whimper?
“Ember?” Spiderman shook his head, the gesture theatric through his full-face mask. His entire suit was designed after the theme of an arachnid. “You know what, nevermind. Why are you here if not for trouble?”
Loki shrugged. “To visit my father. Or at least, the man who pretended to be one my whole life, anyway.”
“Oookaaay,” the spider-child droned out the word for the entire duration it took him to tilt his head to the right. “Listen, uh, why don’t you and I get out of here and we can—”
“I do not get involved with minors.”
The spider-child squeaked. Despite the fog of irritation clouding his mind, he found himself smiling at the adorable sound. “I am not a minor, Sir!” It appeared as though he deliberated a drop in his octave if the sudden deep baritone was anything to go by. Also, someone who knew him and yet addressed him as ‘Sir’? Midgard was not completely lost on manners, it would seem.
Loki parted his lips to reply — he wouldn’t confess it in anybody else’s presence than the privacy his own mind provided, but he was beginning to enjoy this verbal spar with the boy — but before he could get so much as a single syllable out, the door to the parlour was pushed open with a chime similar to the one from when he had entered, and in stepped a figure that barely fit through the door and whom Loki knew far too closely for his taste.
Really, you don’t want to get more...up close with him?
Loki pushed away the voice with a vicious mental snarl.
“Stark.”
Where the spider-child had been inconspicuous in his entry, the Iron Man suit came with all the subtlety of a bilgesnipe.
“Loki,” Stark returned before cocking his head at the younger superhero. “Friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, was it? How is this being friendly and neighbour-y, Underoos?”
“It is! I’m...making sure the neighbourhood is safe and friendly—”
“No, this is the exact opposite! You wanted to help the little guy! That,” Stark jabbed a red-and-gold finger in his direction, “is not a little guy! You are not equipped to take him on!”
“You’re not Ember?” Aroon, whom Loki had honestly forgotten the existence of until now, cut in, plunging the room into an effortless silence as he regarded him with a glint in his eyes Loki didn’t believe was appropriate for the situation. “I knew it! Hah!” He jumped and pumped a fist in the air. “You look nothing like an Ember!”
“Okay, Zen Master here is in his own world. You,” Stark pointed a finger at him, again, “are coming with me. Right now. Come on, let’s go! No time to waste!”
“I shall tell you what I said to your ward—”
“I’m not his ward!”
“—I do not wish to cause any trouble.”
“In that case, it shouldn’t be too big a hardship for you to obey when I ask you to come with me.”
“If you think I’m going to put myself in the fair and just hands of the Avengers, you’re mistaken!” His warning emerged as just short of a growl, but Stark needed to realise that Loki’s reluctance to violence was not an indication of his inability.
Stark stared at him for a long, unnerving minute — not that Loki would allow his discomfort to show for anybody to take advantage of — before saying, “If you aren’t here for another attempt at planet invasion, keeping you safe from the authorities will be my responsibility. But,” he raised a finger, “if you’re lying and I come to know that, and trust me I will, any punishment Asgard has ever come up with for you will pale in comparison to what I’ll do. Capisci?”
“Sí.”
Loki would later wonder if he had imagined the sudden amusement the suit had seemed to vibrate with.
💚
In place of the magnanimously tall sky-scraper that he had been awaiting to fill his view, Loki was brought to another structure with as much of a future-y look as Stark’s Tower had but that occupied a vaster spread of the Midgardian land and at its entrance, was embellished with a massive logo of the Midgardian alphabet ‘A’ stylized within a circle.
The receiving lobby was much the same, however: sleek glass, comfortable furniture which would be rated quite expensive by the realm’s standards although there was something more homey about the overall design than the cold industrial efficiency and bachelor detachment the penthouse had had.
Stark sauntered towards the extensive bar counter as soon as they stepped foot into the living area of the ‘Avengers Compound’, as the spider-child had very kindly apprised him of the name.
‘Twas another peculiarity besides the obvious lack of chains and muzzle Loki had been adorned with the last time he had been to this part of Midgard: the absence of Stark’s teammates. Loki knew about Thor’s voyage through space to gather more knowledge (he’d said as much to the ‘Allfather’ and while Loki had wished for more information on this supposed self-appointed mission, Odin Allfather never asked questions of his favourite son) but he remained at guard, his seidr as well as his centuries-honed battle instincts keeping an eye out for the familiar red-white-and-blue shield of the Captain of America or the shocking device of the Widow Menslayer (fortunately, Loki had never had to face off against her ‘widow bites’ in person), the roar of the berserker or an arrow from the Hawk.
None came, and he was beginning to grow weary of the wait.
“Want a drink?” Stark’s deep baritone dragged him out of his thoughts. “I owe you one from last time.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Instead of conceding and proceeding with whatever it was he was hoping to discuss (because there was
something
he wished to speak about else Loki would have been thrown into a mortal mockery of a jail already), he shook his head with an obstinate furrow between his perfect eyebrows. “A Stark never breaks promises.”
Loki sighed. “Whatever you’re having, then.”
“Whiskey it is!” Stark’s movements perked up with an energy that nobody would believe Loki if he said it was because he agreed to share a drink with the man. Who had entrusted him with being a superhero again?
Oh, that was right! Per the Hawk’s file, no one.
Unlike most other Midgardian superheroes whose powers were the result of either their recklessness or being at the right time in the right place, Stark was one of the few (the few including the Hawk and the Widow) who had built himself, had trained himself to fight alongside the likes of Gods and Midgardian equivalent of Gods, and for that, the man had his respect.
“So, you seem a lot less murder-y right now.” Stark plopped down on the red sofa with a penguin’s grace as he made a vague gesture towards the amber — touching gold — one as if inviting him to take a seat. No courtesy at all, that one. Beside him, the spider-child perched up on the arm of the sofa, his mask pulled up halfway so that it allowed him to sip his chocolate drink — a child, indeed — while still obscuring the rest of his face and thus, his identity.
Loki gingerly sat on the utmost edge of the amber sofa and with the stench of the whiskey assaulting his senses so much so that his nose was on the verge of leading a vicious protest against it, he grabbed the opportunity it presented to set the glass of whiskey down on the centre table.
“I had a vision,” Stark started, unprompted, “A couple years ago. Didn’t want to believe it, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. Nearly destroyed the world in my desperation.”
That...wasn’t what Loki had prepared to hear. A vision of saving the world maybe (would be congruent with the Widow’s analysis of him in the Hawk’s file), even one where he accused Loki of laying waste to Midgard. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had prophesied the destruction of a planet with Loki in its midst.
But this? And since when did Stark possess the Sight? “What did you See?”
The man’s eyes, when he turned them on him, were haunted; a culmination of horror and fear and rage and the abject need to protect. The last time Loki had seen a similar look had been on Hizaldir, one of the Elders who had fought in the Great Battle of Tønsberg against Jotunheim. Several millennia later, Loki knew, the memories of the war yet tormented him. Stark lowered his gaze — and the implication of such an uncharacteristic abrupt move weighed heavy on Loki’s chest — and said, “Another invasion.”
Loki inhaled a deep breath but oblivious to the throng of thoughts addling his brain, or perhaps simply uncaring, Stark carried on, each word making it that much harder for Loki to breathe. “It was dark and the Chitauri had returned. The Avengers were...gone.” Stark was staring at the opposite wall but he wasn’t seeing. Absently, Loki noted the spider-child had forsaken his drink and was hovering over the other man as if unsure whether to comfort him or allow him his space.
“And you stayed alive.”
Stark’s violent flinch was all the answer Loki required to confirm his presumption. A flock of questions swarmed his mind, his head aching in its need for answers, but he asked what he supposed was the most harmless one among them. “Since when do you have the Sight?” Stark had to escape the tentacles of his brain's conjured web if he were to be of any use to Loki and the Universe.
Filled with gratitude to the Norns, Loki watched as it did the trick. “Since when do I have what?”
“The Sight. The ability to See into the future.”
Stark’s incredulity swiftly morphed into an expression of resigned deadpan. “I don’t.”
Loki frowned. “Then how did you have the vision?”
“It was a witch.” Stark waved his hand as though it weren’t anything to be concerned about.
Loki would beg to disagree but he was still a Prince and Princes did not beg. “Earth has witches now?”
“Is that really important right now?” Stark bristled when Loki didn’t immediately acquiesce. “Look, if you’re going to tell me how I’m crazy and it’s just the nightmares of an insane man involving himself in things beyond his pay grade, go right ahead, but be sure of this: with or without your help, I will protect Earth from the upcoming how many ever invasions your puppeteer wants to pull. That’s right. I know you weren’t working alone.”
Loki regarded the man with the sharpest stare he had in his repertoire. It had sent many a man running with their tails tucked between their legs. And he didn’t mean that as a Midgardian metaphor. “What makes you think that?”
“Thor rambled. A lot. He ‘regaled us with tales of your youth and how you were as a child’ blah blah blah. It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots from there.”
Loki reclined on the sofa, the glass back in his hand if only to engage his hand in something, if only to feel a semblance of control. “And you are prepared for what is coming? Midgard is prepared?”
“No,” he admitted with a nod of his head. “But with your help, we can be.”
“And why are you so certain that I’d aid you in your endeavour against the Mad Titan?”
“The Mad Titan? Is that their name?”
“Answer my question first.” And if it were satisfactory, Loki would bring the man into his plans. In truth, Midgard, being right in the centre of Yggdrasil’s branches, was a crucial factor, and to have a representative from this realm, a genius like Stark no less, would only serve in his favour in the long run.
Still, he needed to make sure Stark was aware of what he was getting into, that there was a large chance he might not come back from this battle.
The War against the Mad Titan, if his plans managed to reach that point without attracting his attention, wasn’t one for heroes. It was for warriors.
“Because you flubbed the invasion,” the man said. “You had to escape, you saw an opportunity, you took it with both hands and then bombed his cause and succeeded in yours. I can’t imagine this ‘Mad Titan’ would take that lightly. You knew that and that’s why you allowed Thor to take you back to Asgard. Even confined, you were still free from him.”
How, in the Norns-damned Hel, could this man have inferred so much from a few meagre conversations with Thor and a failed attempt at invasion of his planet?
How could Stark see it when his own family couldn’t?
Why Stark? Why not Thor? Why not Odin? Why not the people he had grown up with?
Was Loki such a monster that nobody who knew him personally would ever believe he was coerced into leading a planetary invasion?
Loki exhaled a deep breath, and with it, half the burden of holding up the Universe. “The Mad Titan is just who the name suggests. A madman. Someone who scares everyone who has ever heard of him. He hails from a planet called Titan. His people were lost to a drought of resources. Now, he goes around from planet to planet and kills half of each. Always half, never more nor less. He believes it’s maintaining a balance, and he calls it mercy.”
“What’s his name?”
Names have power. “Thanos.”
Stark rubbed his face down roughly and jumped to his feet. “This is it! Alright, Reindeer Games, you and I,” he pointed between them, “are going to discuss viable plans going forward. If we have to go up against a genocidal maniac, we’ll need as many people on our side as we can. Do you think other planets will agree to work with us?”
“With some persuasion, it shouldn’t be too hard. Fighting the Mad Titan is a cause that would unite all.”
“Then why haven’t they? Or they’ve united and Earth just doesn’t know?”
“No, we haven’t. You can’t prepare for a battle you have no idea is coming.”
“Right. Attacks from the shadows and without warning. Like a coward. Got it.”
Coward. Nobody had ever described the Mad Titan’s methods as cowardice. Loki, despite himself, felt a begrudging smile of respect tug at his lips.
“Okay, Kid, you shoo now! Go back to looking after the little guy. We’ve got it from here.”
Loki’s brow sprang up. Did Stark honestly expect to discuss such a grave threat in the presence of a child — impressionable by age and nature, if Loki had got his read on him correct — and not have him involved in the plan?
Loki squinted at the man. Should he reassess the usefulness and intelligence of the mortal?
“Mr Stark, I can help!” The spider-child squeaked. It was, once again, a child-like squeak from an actual suspected child and so, it didn’t grate on his nerves like some others did.
“No, you’re a friendly neighbourhood Spiderman—”
“I can’t be a friendly neighbourhood Spiderman if there is no neighbourhood to be friendly to.” Stark and the spider-child stared at each other for a long few seconds before the child backtracked. “Okay, no, that didn’t make any sense, but you know what I mean.”
Loki rather thought that made a lot of sense, but that could be just him.
“Fine,” Stark heaved an overdramatic sigh. “You can stay, I guess , but no alcohol for you.”
“I’m not old enough to drink anyway.”
Stark’s shake of the head was fond, like a father’s for his child. It would seem Loki had miscalculated. The child wasn’t his ward, he was his son. But why did the Hawk’s file not include anything about him? Well, it didn’t matter anymore. At least, now he had a proper address for Starkson rather than simply calling him the ‘spider-child’ in his mind. It would’ve been awkward, to say the least, if he had to conduct a one-on-one conversation with him.
“I’ll call Rhodey and Vision. Meanwhile, Loki—” Stark broke off with an outraged — and exaggerated — gasp. “You haven’t finished your drink! Did you not like it?”
“No, it’s...fine,” Loki emphasised his answer with a sip from his glass, which he realised was a mistake as soon as the liquid touched his lips and the bitterness of it took over his taste buds like wildfire. At Stark’s visible bewilderment, he said, “It’s a little bitter.”
Contrary to his apprehension, Stark’s reaction wasn’t that of offence at all. No, his warm brown eyes lit up and he dashed towards his bar, muttering about a tropical cocktail and Asgardian tongue and some such variations.
Spiderman drew his attention away from the arguable insane genius and towards himself with a clearing of his throat. “I hope you know...” The beginning was ominous, as it was, without the unnecessary pause. Nonetheless, Loki waited with as much patience as he was worth (which was a lot considering he was one of Asgard’s Princes, disgraced though he might have been) as Starkson leaned in and continued in a staged whisper, “...he’s going to test his entire collection of alcohol on you until he finds you your favourite. But don’t worry,” he patted consolingly on Loki’s back, and if not for the myriad of dreadful scenarios swimming through the forefront of his imagination, he would have stabbed Starkson where he stood, child or not. “Mr Stark takes care of his guinea pigs.”
That was mildly comforting—wait, his what now?
“Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.”
~ Invictus, by William Ernest Henley