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Loki Laufeyson feels like shit.
Usually, he’d find more…eloquent wording to put it in, but right now, with his head pounding and his stomach turning somersaults and his throat burning like it’s on fire, there really isn’t any other way to say it.
So, yes, Loki Laufeyson, Prince of Asgard, rightful King of Jotunheim, a god renowned for his silver tongue, really, truly feels like shit.
And perhaps it doesn’t help that for the past two months he’s been stuffed on a relatively small ship with loads of people who are most likely one step away from hating his guts. Or that at the moment he’s standing in a much too long dinner line with said people, waiting to partake in whatever atrocity they’ve decided to call food tonight. And all because Thor scolded him for skipping meals when he himself is incapable of making the three meals a day quota.
Hypocrite.
But really, he knows the main problem is that for the past few days he's been miserably, disgustingly ill. He’s tried to ignore it, even as the symptoms grow worse with each passing hour, turning his thoughts tangled and hazy and making every step seem an impossible task. Yet no amount of denial can cloak the truth, not now when he’s struggling to so much as remain standing.
It’s pathetic, absolutely pathetic. He has endured untold horrors and lived to tell the tale. So, why, in the Hel is his body crumbling before something as puny as...whatever this is?
“Looks delightful, doesn’t it?”
Loki jumps, jerking out of his thoughts with dizzying abruptness. A mere two steps ahead of him stands Bruce Banner, grinning pleasantly as if he hasn’t just scared the Hel out of the most powerful sorcerer in the Nine Realms.
Where did he even come from?
Loki certainly doesn’t remember him being there before he retreated into the recesses of his mind. Unless he just hasn’t noticed him until now. Which, considering the pure agony pulsing behind his eyes, is entirely, horribly, probable.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks, snappishly, more to annoy Bruce than to actually gain a better understanding of the question posed.
“Oh, I was just saying the food looked delightful,” Bruce replies without hesitation. It’s incredibly annoying how easily the man has come to ignore Loki’s foul moods. “Better than last night’s even. What do you wanna bet Val will skip out on us to raid the liquor stash again?”
Loki blinks a few times to clear his suddenly foggy vision. Ahead of him, someone struggles to dislodge a chunk of victuals from the serving spoon. It jiggles nauseatingly and refuses to move.
Oh, how delightful.
Loki’s stomach does a particularly unpleasant flip-flop, and he quickly looks away from the food. Perhaps, eating is not the best idea.
“Yes,” he says distractedly, his eyes darting about the room in search of an escape. The mere thought of putting that stuff in his mouth nearly makes him heave, yet his mind insists on fixating on that very image. “I’m sure Valkyrie will be quite eager to avoid such a meal—as am I, so if you’ll excuse me.”
He gives Bruce a nod and steps out of the line. But before he can start for the exit, Bruce grasps his arm. Loki whirls on him with a scowl, room tilting sickeningly as he does so. Yet, Bruce merely raises his eyebrows and retains his firm hold, unperturbed.
“Hey, buddy, you, okay?” he asks, ignoring how Loki’s scowl deepens at the too-friendly nickname. “You look a little pale—I mean, more than usual.”
“I’m—ah,” Loki’s stomach twists unexpectedly, and he swallows against the rapidly worsening tide of nausea. His saliva feels like molten lava in his throat.
Perhaps, he should find some water before he seeks respite in his quarters. Yes...water would be nice. Or, on second thought, it could make matters worse.
“Loki?”
Bruce’s voice drags Loki’s wandering attention back to the present, and he manages to plaster a tight smile on his face. “Thank you for your concern, Doctor Banner but I am perfectly fine.”
“Okay.” Bruce looks entirely unconvinced. “Just, take care of yourself, alright? Can’t have you collapsing on us.”
Loki smirks. “I am perfectly capable of caring for myself. You need not worry about me.”
“Yeah, no, I know that. But if you ever need anything….”
“Yes, thank you,” Loki manages to say, in a clipped tone. “Good night, Doctor Banner.”
With that, he turns and sweeps away, ignoring the feeling of Bruce’s eyes boring into his back as he goes.
Sleep, it seems, is as elusive as his appetite. Loki lies on the bed, eyes pressed tightly shut, teeth gritted in an attempt to stop their chattering. His head pounds in time with his heart and every breath is agony to his parched throat.
He hasn't been this sick in ages. He's certainly felt ill many times over the past few years, whether from physical duress or mental, but that sensation was wholly incomparable to this. No, this reminds him of the countless summer days he spent huddled in bed, shivering from one fever or another, as Thor and his friends played outside. So many times, he'd wondered why heat tore him apart while strengthening the other Aesir.
Well, he thinks, drily, at least that question is cleared up.
At that moment, another shudder streaks through his body and he can't hold back a groan.
Why in all the Nine does everything have to hurt?
The sound of the door creaking open breaks through his feverish thoughts, followed by the unmistakable sound of Thor's heavy footsteps. Loki forces himself to lie still, willing his brother to leave him be.
“Loki?”
Of course, he would never be that lucky.
“Loki, are you in here?”
The lights flick on, blinding and agonizing even through Loki’s closed eyelids.
“Norns, Thor,” he moans, slapping a hand over his face to shield himself from the onslaught. “Turn off the bloody light. Can you not see that I’m trying to sleep?”
“Come, brother,” Thor says, his tone fond and teasing, if a bit absentminded, “don’t be like that. I’ll only have it on for a moment.”
“And that’s a moment of rest I’ll n-never get back,” Loki replies, grumpily, cursing the unsteadiness of his voice.
He flips over onto his stomach and buries his face deep in his pillow. It alleviates the pain caused by the light, but the pressure that builds is unbearable. Within seconds he’s on his back once more, cringing against the incessant pound, pound, pound of blood in his temples.
“Loki.” Thor’s voice is louder now, and his suffocating presence much nearer. “Brother, are you alright?”
No, he thinks, miserably, swallowing hard against the bile in his throat, I’m not.
What would he give to have Mother by his side right now, stroking his hair, holding him close? Just as she did all those years ago when he was a child, blissfully ignorant to the hideous truths hidden beneath Asgard’s golden foundations. But she is gone now, because of him.
A tear slides down his cheek, unbidden and unwanted.
By the Norns, why is he acting like a child?
“Brother,” Thor says, again, his voice drenched in worry, “you do not look well.”
Well, that’s the understatement of the millennia.
“I’m fine, Thor,” he grits out. “Just tired.”
His migraine chooses that moment to grow even worse, the excruciating pound picking up like the raucous beat of a thousand drums. A pained whimper slips out before he can stop it.
Damn it.
Trust his body to betray him at the most inopportune of moments.
“Oh, Loki.” The bed dips as Thor eases down onto it. A large, warm hand comes to rest gently upon Loki’s forehead, and he lacks the will to shove it off. “Banner was right, you are ill. Why did you not tell me?”
Loki cracks open an eye. “Evidently, I h-have people who will do that for me.”
Thor sighs. His hand moves from Loki’s forehead down to his neck, nudging away his high collar to feel the heat emanating from his skin.
“Well, it’s a good thing he did. You’re burning up.”
No, I’m not, you idiot, Loki wants to protest, stubbornly. I’m freezing!
But Thor has just removed his hand and all his hazy mind can seem to focus on is the absence of the warmth his touch provided.
“’m fine, Thor,” he mumbles instead. His tongue feels strange and unnaturally heavy, and he can no longer keep his words from slurring. “I jus need sleep.”
Thor smooths out the bedsheets, tucking them around Loki with a gentleness belying his title.
“No, right now, you need something to get that fever down.” He rises, causing the bed to shake nauseatingly. Loki squeezes his eyes shut, listening to the sound of Thor’s shuffling footsteps as he walks over to the small table where Loki abandoned his unwanted drink. In a matter of seconds, he’s back again, slipping a hand beneath Loki’s neck and supporting his head as he lifts it from the pillow. He presses the cup to Loki’s lips.
“Drink,” he commands, and Loki doesn’t have the will to argue.
The water slips down his throat, equal parts pain, and relief. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now.
“You likely have the flu,” Thor says as he tips the cup so Loki can drink every last drop. “Banner said a variation of the Midgardian strain was going around the last port we stopped at. I guess it was only a matter of time before one of us contracted it.”
Loki supposes that information is important in one way or another, but at this point, he can’t particularly bring himself to care. He merely gives a small hum of acknowledgment and lets Thor ease his head back onto the pillow.
The water has helped somewhat, though it sloshes nauseatingly about in his stomach when he so much as shifts. Still, at least he now feels capable of actually getting to sleep.
“I’m going to go find Bruce,” Thor murmurs, his hand resting on the side of Loki’s neck once more. Loki leans into the touch, wanting nothing more than to curl up by Thor’s side and let precious slumber envelop him. “And I need you to stay here. Can you do that?”
It takes a great effort, but Loki manages to nod. Why would he want to leave anyway? He’s tired, so tired…
“Don want you to go though,” he slurs, fumbling to put his hand over Thor’s.
“Don’t worry,” Thor replies, his tone reassuring and gentle, “I won’t be long. Get some rest, and when you awaken, I’ll be right here by your side once more.”
He rubs his thumb against Loki’s cheek a few times, every touch a comfort Loki is reluctant to give up. But he’s too weak to resist when Thor coaxes his hand away from under his and rises from the bed.
“Promise you’ll come back?” Loki mumbles, lips clumsy and uncooperative. Exhaustion is already dragging him down to sweet oblivion.
Thor’s voice travels to him from very far away, floating on the wings of blessed slumber.
“I promise.”
His body is on fire.
The agonizing heat reaches him even in the depths of dreamless sleep, dragging him back into the waking world. A strangled cry breaks from Loki’s lips as he jolts upright, clawing at the air for something, anything to make the pain stop.
Hands are on him mere seconds later. They grasp his arms and legs, restraining him even as he fights desperately against them. The tight grip of their fingers burns.
Loki kicks out, his foot connecting with something decidedly human.
“Loki,” a voice that sounds like Thor’s says, urgent and much too close for comfort, “calm down, you’re going to harm yourself.”
“But it hurts,” he chokes out. The mere act of talking is torture in itself. Any moment now he’s certain he’ll burn up into a pile of ash. A scream builds in his throat, begging to be let loose.
“—too high,” someone, likely Bruce, is saying, their words lost in the deafening ringing in Loki’s ears. “I don’t know for sure but the effects of the virus seem to be more severe because of his innate sensitivity to heat.”
“Damn it, he was doing alright a bit ago.”
“Ice. We need ice!”
A barrage of cold hits Loki from the side, sizzling against his skin. Then, more comes and more, surrounding him, caging him in a nauseating battle of fire and ice. He retches, coughing up nothing but bile and air.
The hands tighten their grip, the contact agonizing.
“Lay still, brother, please.”
But Loki can’t. He’s burning, burning as if he’s sitting on the surface of the sun.
The scream that has been growing within him finally breaks free, desperate, pained, the mere sound of it splitting his head with the force of an ax. He jerks, trying to tear at whoever is holding him down, trying to shove off the coldness that only seems to be making things worse.
“Th-Thor,” he cries, struggling to force his tongue into some semblance of submission, “help me.”
“It’s going to be alright, Loki,” his reply comes, sounding strained even to Loki’s ears. “Just breathe, I’ve got you.”
Breath, just breathe.
Loki tries, every effort a hopeless gasp for breath that will not come. He gags again, body shuddering violently as his stomach attempts to expel the nothingness within it. He can’t think past the endless struggle of hot and cold, buffeting him from all sides, the coolness constantly smothered by the flames eating him alive.
He screams once more. It hurts more than anything else, shredding his throat, tearing through his head, setting his stomach churning worse than before. He thrashes again, struggling to hit something, anything. At last, an arm breaks free and he reaches out, tearing at the skin of the hand still attempting to restrain him. Someone grabs at him, wrenching his limb back down to the mattress, even as he claws at them.
His seidr surges up from deep within him, gathering in his palms without conscious thought. He doesn’t even try to control it, as it breaks loose, flying out without aim or direction, wilder than it’s been in years. The grip on his arms slackens just a moment before it’s back with even more force than before.
“Banner,” Thor yells, “we have a problem!”
“Ugh, I don’t want to do this…Val, get the sedative!”
A deafening ruckus comes to life near Loki’s head.
“Where the Hel is it?”
“On the table—hurry!”
More rustling, seeming to reverberate around the room. Loki tries to move away from it but the hands hold him fast. It’s gone in a matter of moments, though, replaced by Val shouting, “Got it!” and the sound of feet scrambling across the hard floor. Seconds later something sharp and metallic pierces Loki’s neck, cool liquid sliding from it into his veins.
He stills, a strange sort of panic taking over, clouding his mind, paralyzing his body.
No. No, no, no, no.
He can’t go through this again, this forced slumber, this plummet into a yawning pit of darkness, so much like that brought on by a single touch of Maw’s long-fingered hand. Yet, he can already feel it happening, the effects of the substance taking hold, and there is nothing he can do to stop it.
“Thor,” he murmurs, helpless, pathetically, as his thoughts crumble like structures of sand, and his limbs go limp.
Someone lifts one of his hands, clasping it in their own, and holding it tightly.
“Sleep, brother,” a voice says, floating through the stifling blackness surrounding him. Loki feels what little resolve he has left slipping away, taking his consciousness with it. “I’m here.”
And before Loki can so much as think of a reply, the darkness swallows him, and he’s gone.
He isn’t certain how many times he awakens after that; waking life and sleep are too intertwined for him to decipher it at this point. All he knows is that sometimes he’s drowning in a darkness from which there is no escape, and others he’s kicking and screaming, fighting against the agony of light, and sound, and the feel of hands on his too-hot skin.
It seems to go on for eternity, the endless cycle of trading one Hel for another, wishing all the while that it would end. And when precious consciousness finally does return, he grasps for it like it’s a lifeline, struggling to breach the surface he’s been trapped beneath for Norns know how long.
The sound of a voice is the first thing his clouded mind registers, muffled by the rushing in his ears, little more than incoherent babble. Then, come physical sensations–the feel of damp sheets draped over his body and tangled about his legs, the luxurious cool of ice pressed against his naked flesh, the warmth of the light shining through his eyelids, the comfort of someone running their hand through his hair, combing it back from his face with practiced gentleness.
His migraine is gone, at last, leaving nothing but a ghost of its original pain behind. So too is the feeling of being burned alive, soothed away by the cold surrounding him. His throat, though still raw, is much less sore than before, and his nausea has dulled into the unpleasant ache of hunger. Nevertheless, Loki feels wrung out, as though he’s just fought a particularly arduous battle and barely made it out alive. Which, if his hazy memories of the whole ordeal are correct, he supposes isn’t too far from what occurred.
Cautiously, he peels his eyes open, wincing as light hits them. He has to blink a few times to clear the haze, but eventually, he’s able to make out the form of Thor, his large body silhouetted against the light shining from behind him. He lies close by him on the bed, lounging on his side, propped up on one elbow. With his other hand, he strokes Loki’s head in a steady rhythm, keeping his gaze trained on Loki’s face, as he rambles on about one thing or another. But as soon as he realizes Loki’s eyes have opened, he trails off, and a wide smile forms on his face.
“Loki, you’re awake!” he exclaims. “How are you feeling?”
Loki swallows in an attempt to coat his dry throat.
“Better,” he manages to croak, sounding nothing at all like himself. He pauses a moment, gathering strength to ask the question he knows he needs to. “How-how long was I out?”
Thor’s face turns solemn. “A week. Whatever illness you had reacted severely with your physiology.” He leans forward, hand moving to rest on the back of Loki’s neck, unshed tears sparkling in his eye. “We—I almost lost you more than once.”
Loki frowns, mind zeroing in on two words only.
His physiology?
His Jotun physiology?
…wait
He shouldn’t look down, he knows he shouldn’t, knows it in his very bones, and yet he does anyway. Just as he suspected, the flesh beneath the thin sheets is a deep, indigo blue.
Panic rises within him, dizzying and horrible. He is in his Jotun form, has been in his Jotun form for who knows how long, and Thor, sweet, loving, idiotic Thor has been touching him this entire time.
“Let go of me.”
The words come out sounding strangled and brimming with terror. But Loki can’t bring himself to care.
Thor frowns, sorrow and confusion plain in his expression. “Loki, why–”
“Thor, let go.”
He still doesn’t budge. “It’s alright, brother,” he says, gently, “I do not hate you for being who you are.”
Loki nearly chokes on the tears clogging his throat. How long has he needed to hear those words? How long has he wished to be touched, to be held, as lovingly and tenderly as Thor is now; to be seen as a person worthy to be cared for rather than a monster with a heart of ice?
But he can’t allow himself to bask in it, not when he could lose control at any moment, and sear his brothers’ flesh off the bone. He just can’t.
He reaches up and grasps Thor’s hand, wrenching it away from his neck. It takes all of his will to resist the yearning to slacken his grip and simply let Thor have his way if only so he can feel the comforting warmth of his touch.
“Don’t you see, you oaf?” he snaps, throwing Thor’s hand away from him, and scooting back. “I’m a Jotun –a danger to Aesir, a danger to you.”
Thor looks as broken as Loki feels, every inch of his expressive face drawn in sorrow.
“You could never hurt me,” he says, reaching out even as Loki leans away from him.
“But I have,” Loki shoots back, “many times before. Need I list them out for you?”
“That is in the past, though,” Thor says without hesitation, “and those years were mere blinks of an eye compared to our lives together before that. What of the times you healed my wounds? What of the times you fought by my side, willing even to die? What of the times you saved me from countless dangers? Have you truly forgotten all of that?”
Of course, I haven’t, Loki wants to scream. Those memories of our childhood are as precious to me as they are to you. Yet, in your fond reminiscing, you forget one, central fact: back then the monster was still caged. Now, it is free.
And perhaps he would have said all of this, to prove his point, to protect Thor from the beast he cannot hope to comprehend, had he not first caught sight of Thor’s arm.
He isn’t certain why he didn’t see it before. He should’ve, really, when the wounds are right in front of his face. But here they are now, a plethora of scratches and bruises and welts scattered about Thor’s tan skin. Some are nearly healed, little more than the ghost of what once was, yet others are fresh enough to have been wrought only a few days before.
Loki looks up slowly, almost afraid to look Thor in the eye but needing to all the same.
“I did that, didn’t I? I hurt you.”
Thor opens his mouth, and then closes it, looking rather helpless. “You were severely ill,” he says finally. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”
Loki shakes his head, eyes filling with unwanted tears. Yes, he has wounded Thor countless times before, in countless different ways, and yes, these injuries aren’t even that bad considering the damage he’s capable of, but the very idea that he did this while Thor was attempting to care for him, makes him feel ill.
“How can you be so certain of my innocence?” he asks, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper.
He wants to scream, to rage at himself and anyone else who might cross his path but he lacks the strength to do so. He is tired–of fighting, of struggling, of failing.
He dares to reach out, hovering his fingers just over Thor’s wounds, watching them disappear beneath a wave of his seidr.
“Perhaps I did wish to harm you again. Perhaps destruction is simply in my nature.”
Before he can stop him, Thor gently brushes away a tear rolling down his cheek.
“If you wanted to harm me, you would not be healing me now,” he says, simply.
And as much as he wants to, Loki cannot argue with that. So, he stays silent, as he finishes sealing cuts, and eliminating bruises. It’s almost painful using more seidr when he feels nearly scraped clean of it, so much dedicated to just keeping him alive for the past week. But he continues anyway. After all the pain he’s caused, it’s the least he can do.
“There,” he says, quietly, when he has soothed the last injury into nonexistence, “the pain should be gone now.”
Thor looks down at his arms with something akin to wonder. “No matter how many times you do that, it never ceases to amaze me.” He raises his head, offering Loki a smile. “Thank you, brother.”
Loki gnaws his lip, lowering his eyes to glare down at his slender, blue hands. “There is nothing to thank me for.”
A finger slides beneath his chin and lifts it. Immediately, Loki goes stock still beneath the touch. But no frost crawls from his skin to Thor’s, no ice turns his skin blue.
“You healed me,” Thor says, gently, his voice coaxing Loki’s gaze away from where he stares, transfixed, waiting for a disaster to occur, “and you did it even though you are still recovering from an illness that nearly took your life. So, yes, there most certainly is something to thank you for.”
Tears cloud Loki’s eyes once more and he blinks furiously, trying to clear them away. He doesn’t deserve this love, this dedication, and yet here is Thor offering it freely, even after everything. His defenses are crumbling helplessly before it.
“Always so sentimental, brother,” he says, voice brittle with emotion he struggles to restrain, “even to your detriment.”
A small smile lifts Thor’s lips, kind and genuine. “It is not to my detriment when it has to do with those I love most.”
Then, ever so gently, he reaches out and pulls Loki into his arms.
Loki goes rigid, mind blurring with the irrational terror that now it will happen, now he will do his brother in with a mere touch. But still, Thor’s flesh remains as healthy and pink as it has been this entire time, even as he tightens his grip, drawing him closer.
“Be calm, brother,” he says as he runs his hand along Loki’s back, his touch slow and soothing. “You are not a danger to me, I assure you.”
Loki inhales a shaky breath and blows it out. Thor’s right, he supposes; were he not in control of his ice seidr he would have already killed him. Still, it feels so strange, so wrong to be touched, held, loved like this while in his Jotun form.
…yet he cannot deny that it feels wonderful too. Safe—Liberating, even. He feels himself melting in the face of it.
“Be calm,” Thor says again, gently, quietly, and this time he complies. He wills his taut body to relax, slumping against Thor, weak with a kind of relief. His arms travel upward, wrapping around his broad shoulders, his hands making fists of his cape. His eyes slide shut as he buries his face in his shoulder, reveling in the feel of him.
“Thank you,” he whispers, unsure what exactly he’s even grateful for. Everything most likely—everything Thor has done to show him the kindness he can never hope to deserve.
Thor presses a kiss to his head. “It was nothing, all of it," he murmurs, his breath ruffling Loki’s hair. "You are my brother, and I will always, always love you."
And it’s as if he knows that is exactly what Loki needs to hear right now, as though he is somehow aware of the gaping hole his words have begun to fill.
There was a time when Loki believed that hole could only be filled with power and prestige, a golden throne to sit upon as he ruled a golden city. But now, as he sits amongst tangled bedsheets and bags of ice, his indigo body wrapped in his brother’s arms, he knows more strongly than ever that that was never the answer.
This right here, this love he and Thor still share after everything they’ve been through, this is what he needs to be whole.
It’s imperfect, it’s messy, but it’s enough.
It will always be enough.