Chapter Text
Loki had always been very good at deciding what mattered.
It was a survival skill, honed young and sharpened often: choose the important thing, discard the rest, and keep moving. Pain rarely made the cut. Pain was common, expected, easily rationalized. Pain was something you endured quietly, because reacting to it only invited questions, and questions—historically—had never ended well.
So when the blade slid between his ribs, low and to the left, slipping past bone with an unpleasant intimacy, Loki noticed it only long enough to register that it would be inconvenient later.
Later was acceptable. Now was not.
There had been too much happening—fire and screaming metal, the sickly green gleam of Hela’s soldiers flooding Asgard's streets like rot through a wound, Thor somewhere ahead of him locked in battle that felt less like a fight and more like an inevitability. Loki had felt the impact, the cold shock of steel, the immediate warmth that followed, and then he had made a decision without conscious thought.
Not now.
He had twisted away before the blade could be withdrawn cleanly, which in retrospect explained the tearing sensation, the way the pain bloomed rather than sliced, a spreading, wet heat that clung instead of fading. Blood followed, of course—he felt it immediately, soaking into fabric, clinging to his skin—but blood was also manageable. Blood was visible, yes, but visibility could be mitigated. A hand pressed flat. A posture adjusted. A smile deployed at the correct angle.
He had done all of this before.
Now, with Asgard already gone and the Statesman creaking under the weight of survivors who no longer had a place to return to, Loki stood near the edge of the deck with one shoulder braced against a support column and told himself, with great calm, that this was still under control.
His hand was slick beneath his tunic.
He did not look at it.
Looking turned sensations into facts, and facts demanded response. Loki preferred implication. He preferred ambiguity. If he did not look, then the blood was only warmth, and warmth could be explained by fire, exertion, proximity to battle. Everything smelled like smoke anyway. No one would notice one more wrong thing in a room full of ruin.
His breathing had shortened without his permission. That was irritating, more than alarming, a subtle betrayal that made his chest feel tight and shallow, as though his lungs were refusing to fully expand. Each breath scraped faintly, dragging against something that felt swollen and angry beneath his ribs.
He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth, controlling it the way he had learned to control everything else.
Across the deck, Thor moved among their people.
Loki kept his gaze carefully unfocused, peripheral only, because looking directly at Thor was dangerous in a way blades rarely were. Thor had a way of noticing things, of seeing past masks Loki had worn for centuries, and lately—since Asgard, since everything—his attention had sharpened into something relentless and exhausting.
Thor spoke softly to the survivors, resting a hand on one shoulder, clasping another wrist, murmuring assurances he could not possibly guarantee. He looked older like this, Loki thought distantly, weighed down by responsibility that sat uneasily on broad shoulders never meant to carry kingdoms alone.
He does not need you bleeding at his feet, Loki told himself firmly. He does not need one more failure.
The warmth in his side pulsed in time with his heartbeat now, a dull throb that had begun to spread inward rather than outward, sinking deep into muscle and bone. Underneath it, something else stirred—an unpleasant, creeping heat that did not feel natural, not the sharp burn of injury but a sluggish, invasive warmth that seemed to leech through him, settling into his veins.
Poison, then.
Of course.
Hela did not bother with simple deaths. She favoured things that lingered, that punished patience and pride equally. Loki almost admired the efficiency of it, even as nausea curled low in his stomach.
He shifted his weight carefully, adjusting the angle of his stance so that the pressure against his side increased just enough to slow the bleeding. The metal of the support column was cold through his tunic, biting into his back. He welcomed it. Cold was grounding. Cold reminded him where he was.
He could leave. Slip away quietly, while everyone else was occupied. Find somewhere private. Assess the damage properly. There were spells he could use, rudimentary healing magic he rarely bothered with, tricks learned long ago that might at least seal the wound long enough to—
His vision blurred suddenly, the edges of the world smearing as though someone had dragged wet fingers across reality.
Loki sucked in a sharp breath before he could stop himself, his hand tightening instinctively over his ribs.
Not yet, he thought, irritated. That is entirely too soon.
The heat surged, sudden and vicious, racing through his torso in a way that made his skin prickle and his teeth ache. His heart stuttered once, twice, then resumed with a heavy, uneven rhythm that he did not like at all. Sweat broke out along his hairline, dampening his collar, the air suddenly feeling too thick to breathe properly.
He swallowed and tasted iron.
That, more than anything, concerned him.
Blood in the mouth suggested internal bleeding, or something worse—lungs, perhaps, or the slow corrosion of poison working its way upward. Loki had a fleeting, abstract thought that he should be cataloguing symptoms more carefully, the way he would if this were happening to someone else. Instead, his thoughts felt slippery, refusing to settle, sliding away from conclusions he did not want to reach.
He pushed off the support column and took a step.
The deck tilted beneath him.
It was not enough to draw immediate attention—small mercies–but it was enough that his knee buckled, his balance pitching forward as the world lurched unpleasantly sideways. He caught himself with a sharp exhale, fingers digging into metal as his vision darkened at the edges.
For a brief, treacherous moment, he considered simply letting go.
It would be easy. Easier than standing. Easier than explaining. Easier than seeing the look on Thor’s face when he realized—too late—that Loki had once again misjudged what he could endure.
But the idea of collapsing here, in front of everyone, was intolerable.
Loki straightened with deliberate care, schooling his features into something dismissive and lazy, as though he had merely stumbled from exhaustion like everyone else. His heart hammered against his ribs, loud and uneven, each beat sending a fresh wave of heat through his chest.
He lifted his gaze—and met Valkyrie’s.
She stood several paces away, arms crossed, her expression sharp and assessing in a way that made Loki’s skin itch. Valkyrie had a soldier’s eye, trained to notice weakness, imbalance, the subtle signs that someone was about to fall. Loki had avoided her gaze for precisely this reason.
He offered her a smile.
It was one of his better ones, polished and infuriating, all careless arrogance and bored disdain, the kind that suggested he was above concern and she was wasting her time.
She did not smile back.
Her eyes narrowed instead, flicking briefly to his posture, the way his weight favoured one side, the unnatural stillness of his left arm. Loki felt, with sudden clarity, the exact moment her attention sharpened into suspicion.
Damn.
He turned away before she could speak, angling toward the nearest corridor with what he hoped looked like casual disinterest. If he could just put distance between them—break her line of sight, disappear into the maze of the ship—he could salvage this.
His second step betrayed him entirely.
Pain detonated beneath his ribs, white-hot and immediate, a violent flare that stole the breath straight from his lungs and sent a jolt of nausea crashing through him. His vision collapsed inward, stars bursting behind his eyes, and this time there was no graceful recovery.
His foot caught awkwardly. His balance failed.
Loki felt himself falling and had just enough time to register, with detached annoyance, that this was going to leave a mess.
Strong hands caught him under the arms before he hit the deck, jerking him upright with a force that made the pain scream louder in protest. The sudden movement tore a raw sound from his throat before he could suppress it, something ugly and unmistakably real.
“Loki.”
Valkyrie’s voice was close now, sharp with alarm.
He tried to laugh. The attempt came out wrong, breathless and thin, and dissolved into another involuntary gasp as the heat surged again, stronger this time. His hand slipped from his side, fingers slick and trembling, and when he looked down despite himself, he saw dark blood soaking steadily through the green and gold of his tunic.
More than he had thought.
More than he should have allowed.
“Well,” he murmured faintly, as the world swayed and narrowed around him, “that’s unfortunate.”
The deck rose up to meet him as his knees gave out.
The last thing he registered was the smell of blood—his own, thick and metallic—and the distant, infuriating thought that Thor was going to be very angry about this.
Then the darkness closed in, merciful and absolute.
Valkyrie barely had time to register that Loki was swaying before he went down.
“Don’t you dare—” she snapped, lunging forward as his weight pitched toward her, catching him more out of irritation than concern at first. He hit her wrong—awkward, all angles and loose limbs—and she hissed under her breath as she braced her feet and hauled him upright.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You disappear for five minutes and—”
Then she felt it.
The heat hit her through his clothes, sharp and wrong, the kind that made her stomach drop even as her hands tightened automatically to keep him from slipping through her grip. Fever-hot, damp with sweat, his body burning in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline or exertion.
Her irritation stalled mid-thought.
“Idiot,” she said instead, quieter now, glancing down as his head lolled forward, breath scraping shallow and uneven like he couldn’t quite remember how to pull air all the way in. His weight sagged heavily against her side—lighter than it should have been, lighter than a god had any right to feel—and that, more than anything, set her teeth on edge.
She shifted her hold, and her hand came away wet.
Valkyrie swore, sharp and vicious, dragging her gaze to his side despite herself. Blood soaked through the fabric at his ribs, dark and spreading fast, her fingers slipping where she pressed instinctively to stem it. Too much. Far too much. Asgardians didn’t leak like this unless something had gone very, very wrong.
“Of course you didn’t say anything,” she muttered, jaw tight as she hauled him closer and adjusted her grip again. “Of course you didn’t.”
Loki didn’t answer. Didn’t even pretend to. One of his hands twitched uselessly at his side, fingers smearing blood across the deck as she shifted him, breath rattling faintly in his chest like his body was already arguing with itself about whether it wanted to keep going.
That was when she felt it—not just the heat, but the wrongness beneath it. The way his muscles kept tensing and releasing without his permission. The faint tremor running through him, too uneven to be shock, too deliberate to be pain alone.
Annoyance iced over into something colder.
“Ah,” she muttered. “You absolute idiot.”
She adjusted her grip again, fingers pressing closer to the wound, and her hand came away slick—burning—as if the blood itself carried heat. The skin around the injury felt swollen, angry, almost… alive.
Poison, then.
Of course it was poison.
“Hey,” she said sharply, shifting him so his weight leaned more heavily against her shoulder. “Don’t you dare check out on me now.”
His lashes fluttered once, not quite opening, and his breath hitched like her voice had snagged on something that still reached him. It wasn’t consciousness, not really, but it was enough to keep her moving.
People were starting to notice.
Murmurs rippled across the deck as heads turned, eyes drawn inevitably to the blood and the way Loki’s body sagged unnaturally in her grip. Valkyrie straightened instinctively, squaring her shoulders and fixing the nearest onlookers with a look that promised consequences if anyone got in her way.
“Clear a path,” she snapped. “Now.”
They moved.
Good. At least that hadn’t changed.
She half-dragged, half-carried Loki toward the nearest enclosed corridor, boots slipping slightly on the blood-slick floor. His arm hung loose over her shoulder, too limp, his head knocking dully against her collarbone with each uneven step. Up close, she could feel how wrong his breathing was—too shallow, too fast, like his body was rationing air.
He was frighteningly light.
That realization hit her harder than the blood.
Loki had always looked slight next to Thor, all sharp lines and narrow shoulders, but this was different. This was bone and sinew with very little else beneath it, weight reduced by months of stress and starvation and whatever quiet self-destruction he’d been indulging in while no one was looking. Valkyrie clenched her jaw and adjusted her grip, irritation flaring hot and fast.
Of course you didn’t say anything, she thought bitterly. Of course you didn’t.
They reached the medbay with less ceremony than she would have liked—no dramatic doors, no alarms, just a too-small room with too-bright lights and a slab that suddenly looked very inadequate for the amount of blood Loki was losing.
She all but threw him onto it.
Loki’s body hit the surface with a dull thud, limbs jostling, a broken sound tearing from his throat as pain dragged him briefly back toward awareness. His eyes slit open for half a second, unfocused and glassy, before rolling back again.
“Easy,” Valkyrie said, though there was nothing gentle about the way she tore his tunic open.
The fabric parted under her hands, sticky and resistant where blood had already soaked through. She peeled it back with a sharp tug and swore, long and vicious, when the wound was finally exposed.
It was worse than she’d thought.
The blade had gone in deep and torn sideways on the way out, leaving an ugly, gaping slice beneath his ribs, the edges darkened and swollen, the skin around it discolored in a way that had nothing to do with bruising. Black veins spiderwebbed outward from the wound, faint at first but unmistakable, pulsing subtly beneath his skin like something alive.
“Hela,” Valkyrie muttered. “You absolute bastard.”
She pressed down hard, ignoring the way blood welled up around her fingers, ignoring the way Loki’s body reacted with a sharp, involuntary jerk. His breath hitched again, a thin, broken sound that made her chest tighten despite herself.
“You’re not dying on this ugly table,” she told him flatly. “I don’t care how determined you are about it.”
Her hands moved quickly, efficiently—pressure first, then stitching, then pressure again. She wasn’t a healer, not really, but she knew enough to keep someone alive long enough for better options to arrive. The problem was the poison. She could feel the heat radiating from him now, see the way his skin flushed unnaturally, sweat beading along his temples and throat.
She needed Thor.
That thought came with a sharp spike of irritation, because Thor was the last person she wanted anywhere near this mess. He was already holding their people together with stubborn optimism and brute force, and Valkyrie could picture his face all too easily if he walked in and saw this—shock first, then panic, then guilt.
Still.
She jerked her head toward the doorway. “You,” she barked at the nearest Asgardian hovering uselessly in the hall. “Go get Thor. Now. Tell him Loki’s down and bleeding and if he wants answers, he needs to move.”
The man didn’t argue. He ran.
Good.
Valkyrie turned back to Loki just in time to catch his head rolling weakly to the side, lips parting as his breathing stuttered. His skin was clammy beneath her hands, feverish heat giving way to something colder at the extremities.
“Stay,” she ordered, pressing her forearm more firmly against the wound. “You do not get to check out before your brother gets here. You owe him that much.”
Loki did not answer.
His chest barely rose.
Oh Norns, this is bad. This is very bad.
The black veins had crept higher now, threading up his side toward his heart, faint but persistent, like ink spreading through water. Valkyrie swallowed hard and worked faster trying to slow what she couldn’t stop.
A deep voice filled the small room.
“Val?”
She froze.
Thor stood in the doorway, massive frame filling the space, his face gone tight and pale in a way Valkyrie had never seen before. His eyes went immediately to the slab, to Loki’s still form laid out in blood and torn fabric, and for a moment he didn’t seem to breathe at all.
“What happened?” Thor asked, his voice low, strained, panic barely leashed.
Valkyrie didn’t look up as she tied off the last stitch. “It looks like one of Hela’s soldiers got him. Probably a poisoned blade. He’s been hiding it since Asgard. The idiot”
Thor’s jaw clenched hard enough she heard his teeth grind. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I just found out,” she snapped back without hesitation. “He collapsed in front of me. I got him here as fast as I could.”
Thor crossed the room in two strides, stopping short at Loki’s side like he was afraid to touch him. His eyes traced the blood, the wound, the dark veins creeping up pale skin.
“He’s—” Thor swallowed. “He’s dying, isn’t he?”
Valkyrie finally stepped back, wiping Loki’s blood from her hands onto her pants. “I’ve done what I can. But this isn’t just poison. It’s Hela’s magic. It’s eating him from the inside out.”
Thor went very still.
Then he was there, hands cradling Loki’s head with surprising gentleness, thumbs brushing damp hair back from his brother’s forehead. His voice cracked, quiet and furious all at once. “Why didn’t you say anything, you idiot?”
Loki, unconscious, did not answer.
Thor’s grip tightened slightly, like he was afraid Loki might slip away if he didn’t hold on hard enough. “I should have known,” he whispered, pressing his hand to his eyes briefly. “I should have seen it.”
Valkyrie watched him for a second longer than she meant to, something uncomfortable twisting in her chest.
“He probably didn’t want to be a burden,” she said, softer now, because it felt true and because it felt cruel. “You’ve got enough on your shoulders.”
Thor let out a sharp, humourless breath. “He always does this. Acts like he doesn’t matter.”
“He matters,” Valkyrie said shortly. “Which is why we’re not letting him die on this ship.”
She straightened, already turning toward the door. “There’s tech on the lowest level—healing pods. Grandmaster’s junk, but it might slow the poison.”
Thor didn’t hesitate. He scooped Loki up like he weighed nothing, cradling him carefully against his chest. “Then that’s where we’re going.”
Valkyrie grabbed her sword and moved ahead of them, clearing the way without looking back.
She didn’t allow herself to think about what would happen if the pods didn’t work.
She didn’t allow herself to think about what it would do to Thor if they lost Loki now.
She focused on the sound of boots on metal, the weight of urgency in her limbs, and the simple, stubborn refusal to let another Asgardian–Even if he was an idiot–die on her watch.