Chapter Text
Two Years Earlier.
Though Odin’s rooms are infinitely more comfortable than any he’s had, it’s impossible for Loki to sleep. It’s a tomb. With an aggravated sigh, he sheds the king’s skin. Even in his own flesh, he can’t escape the whispers that have come from being lord of the Aesir. All he wants is peace. But even when he mutes the larger conversation....His own thoughts torment him. The claws of the Chitauri are never truly gone. He rolls his shoulder to loosen himself from the memory, only to be griped by another headache. His problem with Thanos....It’s a debt unfulfilled. He’s heard what Thanos does to those who disappoint him. He winces at the memory of being forced to watch as two young girls mutilated themselves at the feet of his creditor. They had called him father.
A wave of nausea causes his skin to perspire. It’s rare for him to feel the discomfort of heat, but it sticks to him. He has been here before, with this steady ache of anxiety. There’s no need to panic.
But he does.
It is impossible for him to breathe regularly.
In the oceanic din of a thousand thoughts, Thor’s surfaces for a moment. It is a request for knowledge, for strength. Something disturbing is happening on Midgard. He can’t bring himself to care. Whatever skirmishes his “brother” faces with his precious Avengers do not trouble him in Asgard. Thor will either outgrow their petty concerns. Midgardians, he knows first hand, need to be shepherded. They are weak minded, and prone to chaos.
He smiles. They are a people he would’ve enjoyed ruling.
As it is, the moaning of the Aesir--Thor’s included--are driving him mad. His inability to control his own mind manifests as a writhing snake in the pit of his stomach. He lashes out, tearing into one of Odin’s idyllic tapestries with snarling fangs. If he frees his Jotun form for only a moment, he dissociates from that reality.
Thor’s anxiety melds with his, fighting for his father’s ear as they did when they were younger. As he destroys his mother’s weaving, he shudders at the contrast between those two sisters in Thanos’ court, with him and Thor. No family was perfect. All families have secrets that slither beneath the surface, darkness that hunts in the shadows. He closes Odin’s grace from Thor. Sooner or later he’ll see the true natures of his Avengers. See that for all their gilded ideation, there is a tormented, glutinous, motive beneath.
When the threads settle around him, the magic whisper of Frigga’s artistry evaporated, he finds quiet. He rests his head against the cool stones of the wall. His reflection in the large mirror mocks him: he’ll always end up like this. In a tomb or a prison, exhausted by his own fate.
A dark, cool, hand rests on his shoulder. Whispers in his ear. She frightens him. She is a whisper he has heard many times, even before the Odin Sight. Before Thanos. She reaffirms his weaknesses. Places a weapon in his hand.
Once again, he’s tempted. There are lies he tells himself to justify his actions, and he uses those same lies to punish himself afterwards. A steady drip of poison in his mind.
“Aw, fuck.”
He opens his eyes. A pretty brunette trying to shave a specific portion of her ankle fills his vision. Her blood streams thinly, feathering into the lines of her skin.
From this angle, he has a perfect view of her ass. She’s wrapped it in tighter, neater, fabric than she usually does. Her hair is blown out, and she struggles to contain her curves beneath the professional clothing.
“Great job, Darce. Walk into an interview with band-aids all over like a fucking pre-teen.” She fusses with the fastening that draws more attention to her bust than the modest attire wants. “Alright Mr. Odin, Thor, or whatever freaky-deeky god is listening up there,” She gives herself a once over. “This is as good as it’s gonna get. Please don’t let SHIELD smite me.”
All other responsibilities have fled his brain. He’s happy to be utterly preoccupied with Darcy Lewis and her cock-twitching interview attire. He flicks a wrist evaporates the destruction in Asgard, making himself comfortable to watch from the large bed. From his lounging position, he smiles at the confident swagger to her hips on her way to meet with his brother’s so-called friends. He smirks, conjuring entertainment for himself in the form of a button popping off it’s seams.
Loki can’t help but chuckle at her cursing, settling in for a happy diversion, indeed.
+
The Present.
He’s about to be sick.
“I’m sorry?” Darcy turns on him. Her face hard, and unreadable.
No lie comes to his tongue. No distraction. Loki’s mind is blank in horror.
“Did you just say,” She takes a measured step towards him. “That you love me?”
The way she grinds out the word does not bode well for him. There are a great many tricks he could use, but she sees through them all. And he knows better than to try them. Still, he’s not without options if she presses him. He readies his defences.
“Did you seriously just fuck-ing say that you love me?”
Definitely not happy, then, he notes.
“And what of it?” He challenges.
Darcy’s entire posture changes. Her expression drops into incredulity. “And what of it? Really? Oh my god you’re such a...” She looks around, as if requesting support from thin air.
He tries not to let this unsettle him. “Most people handle such a declaration with at least a modicum of respect,” he draws himself up to look down on her.
“You’re a spoiled, arrogant, dick. You know that?” Her tone is icy and even. Whatever frying Darcy’s hormones had done to her nervous system, she had them under control now. “The kind of balls it takes to use ‘I love you’ as a cop out is just...wow. Just. Fucking. Wow, Loki.”
Her crass tongue usually turns him on with it’s boldness. Never before has it offended him, until now. “A ‘cop out?’ You think I’d insult you, the mother of my--”
“There it is,” Darcy pounces. “I can’t fucking stand that shit. I’m so tired of you treating me like I’m some sort of Russian nesting doll, or something. What about me? What about the girl you stalked and kidnapped? You know, the one you bone every time you get bored?”
She chokes on the words. He can tell she’s struggling to articulate herself. It pangs him, and frustrates him, as much as her. Without thinking, he reaches for her.
Instantly he sees the untapped anxiety he’s felt before. The coiled snake of unwantedness. The hidden beast that gnaws on insecurities. And something else. Something that has his name on it, a feeling she clearly wants to ignore.
+
She’s used to feeling like she’s going to vomit. The sense of vertigo she has, shoving him away from her, goes beyond any morning sickness. She feels violated.
They stare at each other. She feels her knees give out, and doesn’t have the ability to shake free of the arms that try to stop her fall.
He’s murmuring her name, holding her in his arms, huddled on the floor. The room hasn’t stopped spinning.
“I’m sorry,” He pleads. “I didn’t mean to....”
She pulls away from him. He has the wisdom to let her. “Who gave you the right to do that?”
He’s paler than usual. It could be the sliver of moonlight. Or maybe her vision is still wonky. “It was instinct, I apologize, I....” He deflates. “Are you alright?”
She’s suspicious of him. Has she ever had a genuine conversation with him? Her heart drops, remembering her trepidation in that cabin in Tromso, hardly six months ago.
“Aside from being an idiot, yeah, I’m fine.”
The foreign sensation of her baby moving centers her. This is her fate, no matter how chaotic it might be.
“You’re trembling,” He moves to her carefully.
“I’m cold.” She lies.
“Darcy,” Loki takes her hands between his, begging her to look at him. “You... have captured me. My heart...it’s yours.”
Her heart jumps to her throat, and she can’t help but search his eyes to see if he’s tricking her. Loki’s gaze can hardly meet hers, he stammers on, gripping her hands tighter.
“I was in torment...and you were...you.” He laughs, surprising them both. “You reminded me of what it could be like. I have no excuses, and don’t want my troubles to touch you-- either of you.”
They’re knee to knee at the foot of his bed, and Darcy is absurdly reminded of a certain scene in West Side Story that she was forced to watch in high school. The fear and adrenaline she recognizes shocks her with a reality no one could have planned: they love each other. Her heart and blood leaps for him, and she grips tighter. She grips tighter because she remembers the story that soapy musical was based off of. “Civil blood” is the least of their worries.
“You’ve been the center of my attention for longer than is probably healthy,” He rushes on, taking courage in her grasp. “I am constantly enraptured by you, Darcy. I love you. I don’t want to live a life without you in it.”
He has nothing to barter with, she knows. He says all of it without a need-- because what can he get from her that he already hasn’t? And so, she decides.
“We’d fight a lot more,” She offers.
He kisses her forehead, eyelashes, temple. He brings her tightly against him, their child barely in the way. “I’d welcome it.”
“We’ll have to figure out this whole baby thing, too. And you’d have to get help with your psychotic breakdowns.”
His response is lost in kisses.