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Given the trials of the previous day, Loki hardly expected to wake before morning. Still, he found himself shocked aware, woken to the deep black of Stark’s bedroom. Light from the ever-illuminated city below edged the curtains that surrounded the room.
Loki was alone, something he barely needed to confirm with a tentative hand. He’d been woken by something, a searing wrongness that pierced his chest and now echoed behind his ribs.
It didn’t bode well.
Where was Stark?
He stayed motionless long enough to determine that no one was in the bath chamber or creeping about in the halls outside the door.
Now their door, he supposed. With a tired sigh, Loki turned on the mattress to slip his feet to the floor. Wherever Stark was, something was wrong. With him. And Loki wouldn’t feel himself again--wouldn’t be restored--until he found and soothed it.
This was his lot: offering comfort to the enemy, if that was still Stark’s role. As if either of them knew their roles any longer, now that they were--
The previous day had been unpleasant.
He wondered if any being--anyone, in all of Asgard’s history--had been as loathed by his so-called soulmate. Stark’s dire expression, his disgust-tinged voice ... Loki would arrive at the end of all days remembering the gray of Stark’s face, the fact that he kept looking to Thor--to Thor--for support, as Loki grasped his hands and began their pledges.
The words, cold with sarcasm, were dragged from Stark’s mouth.
The entire scene would have titillated the palace gossips, who pecked and crowed over any humiliation to befall the younger prince. This one would have been savored above all others.
If the oath-making had been awkward, the consummation was--
In days long hence, Loki would use the words “disappointing,” perhaps, or “lackluster.” Now, too close to the memory, he had no words. Stark, softened only with copious amounts of alcohol, had led Loki to the bedchamber with all the enthusiasm of a bride being given without her consent--
Well. Yes. There it was. “Disappointing” was close enough. The misery flared in his chest, in that sadistic loop that tied Stark to him. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and walked grimly to the door, shrugging on his robe as he went. If he didn’t deal with Stark’s distress now, he wouldn’t sleep again tonight, and tomorrow was certain to be another long, dreadful day.
He had tried to ascertain, the evening before, whether Stark had experience in ... such matters between men, but the fool wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t speak at all once they’d entered the bedroom, and Loki couldn’t separate truth from lies where no words were uttered.
Oh, but he had spoken, once.
“Just get it over with,” as he rolled onto his back and turned his face away. “Please.”
Yet another experience that no doubt made Loki’s bonding unique. He found himself wishing, of all things, at all times, for his mother. Someone who--perhaps--would help his fate make sense. Offer some wisdom that Loki desperately needed and utterly lacked. He had never heard tell of a pair whose bond developed suddenly, after time--who had been allowed to grow enmity between themselves before the connection bloomed.
Stark wasn’t in the common area, nor the kitchen. The living quarters all were darkened, something Loki didn’t see fit to address. Stark hadn’t chosen to leave a trail leading to his whereabouts; Loki would make no better concession.
Thor would return in the morning, with some excuse for looking in on them. Despite his concerns for his teammate, which were apparent as Thor whispered low to Stark in the stretch following the ceremony, Thor was the only one, the very only one happy about this revelation. Loki would always remember Thor’s face, when Loki had fallen to his knees in Stark’s presence, when the belated bond had asserted itself.
As if all Thor’s problems were solved, his worries allayed.
As if Loki would finally find peace.
As if Stark were going to fix him.
Stark clearly couldn’t keep his own self in working order, much less--
The work area stood empty. Loki paused to breathe against a wall, listening to the quiet hum of machinery, the clicks and whirs of Stark’s creations. His soulmate’s discomfort was becoming rather debilitating. If he could just persuade Stark to sleep, he might get a few hours’ relief before it began anew at dawn.
He made his way back up the stairs until it occurred to him-- Stark wouldn’t have gone out. Stark couldn’t have gone out, not yet. He’d have to remain close or pay a price, until this bond had matured enough that its claws didn’t tear through their tender nerves at each separation. But Stark may have edged as close to “out” as he could, and--
Loki saw him, then, through the glass, hunched into shadow against a distant part of the railing, arms tight around his own folded-up knees. His body was twisted sideways, resting against the translucent material. Looking down over the city--his city. Loki could see, by the jerking of Stark’s shoulders, that the man’s breath was coming fast. Panic, perhaps, a latent reaction to the changes forced upon him.
For his own part, Loki rued that he couldn’t even enjoy this. What he would have paid to have that reaction in Stuttgart. Or even here, in the confrontation next to Stark’s bar, scant days after.
Now it was just inconvenient.
It spoiled his sleep.
Stark turned his head from the streets below when he heard the door slide open, looked Loki over once before tilting his head away again. It wasn’t until Loki moved closer that he realized ... oh.
Yes, another one for Mother, if he could ever have her wisdom again: a soulmate weeping in despair over his bonding.
As the realization settled over him, as he understood that his soulmate was so despairing of his fate that he-- Loki’s body jerked, the pain in his chest blazing up and outward in a sudden attack of No. NO. NO! He dragged in a desperate breath, then another, a perfect mirror of Stark’s panting.
Instantly, Stark cringed, twisted further against the barrier, twisting away. Hissed as he threw out a hand and shouted, “Stop! STOP!”
Saying was easier than doing, and there was no fighting off the anguish that was flooding his head, his heart. His soul. Loki sobbed. He bent low at the waist, almost a convulsion, trying to stop his own breath, making some kind of horrible sounds he couldn’t control. Could barely see Stark through the blur of his own vision, through his own tears--
Stark made an outraged sound, finally turning back to wave an arm in the direction of Loki’s face. “Hey! NO!” Reached out to slap at Loki’s leg. “Hey! Stop, you’re making it--making it worse. You king of ... king of fucking pain.” Grabbed at the hem of Loki’s robe and pulled, to snap Loki to attention. “Christ, I can’t even-- You’re going to need to leave if you can’t--” And he stilled suddenly, and Loki could see the moment Stark understood. He pulled his hand back and swiped at his face, looked down at his fingers. “Oh, shit. I’m making this worse, right?” His voice broke as he tried to speak.
“Jesus Christ.” Stark’s laugh was bitter. “It’s a fucking feedback loop, isn’t it.” Growled as he waved at his own chest, his head. “As if my own shit isn’t bad enough to live with every day, and now I have this--you.” A fresh sob from the man, who scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his robe, then peered up to where Loki hovered. “This is you.”
Loki straightened to his full height with difficulty, and looked Stark over again. Conceded his point with silence. While Loki had taken some small comfort, the day before, in newly gained memories of friendship and triumph--the joy of Stark’s flights rivalling his own at pulsing seidr from his fingertips--the mortal had gotten the poorer half of the arrangement. A thousand years of suffering and cruelties to sift through, to swallow. Then he had been left in the dark, to his own thoughts, laced with and magnified by Loki’s own.
He had tried to crawl away simply to escape them.
Loki actually felt something like pity as he looked down at the man he’d been linked with, who had been burdened with him. Tried for what connection he could. “Thor’s explanation to you was barely adequate, it seems,” he answered, Typical, but even that attempt only wounded himself more, as Stark looked away and pulled back into himself.
Loki lifted his own head to the sky, rolling his eyes. This wouldn’t do. He stepped closer, and then slid down the smooth barrier behind Stark’s back to sit next to him. Made sure their upper arms pressed together lightly. However unwanted, the touch would lessen Stark’s suffering.
More would be better, but ...
When Stark didn’t answer, but just stared forward, Loki pressed. “Let me do this.” He reached for Stark’s hand. “It will relieve some of your discomfort.” Pressing their palms together, he was barely prepared for the conflicted want and aversion that curled off the man, and couldn’t help his flinch. Felt his muscles go tight as his fingers wove through Stark’s.
He looked at their hands, saw the scars on Stark’s, oil or grease under his fingernails, calluses from irregular work. Loki’s own, clean and near unmarked. “Some call this a gift, you know. I’m sure Thor did, when he spoke to you.” Could see Stark’s own bitter-humored reaction, even as his heart was calming. “At this moment, it seems more of a punishment. Certainly it must be for you ... though feeling my bondmate’s revulsion at our touch is perhaps the most creative one I have yet to endure.
“I have to imagine that Odin would be pleased. He could hardly conceive of anything as cruel.”
Stark’s voice was softer, and the fatigue was now obvious; Loki’s proximity, his physical touch had indeed soothed. “Thor made it sound like I had walked into a candy shop with a porn shop just next door.” He glanced down at their joined hands, and then up at Loki. “For the record? Slightly less awesome than that.” Only met Loki’s eyes briefly before he looked away; Loki had noticed Stark’s lashes were again clumped with tears. “So. This is forever, or at least until I die, and you get a do-over.” His head fell back against the barrier with a knock. “I hope the next one works out better for you.”
What? Loki hid his reaction. Apparently Thor hadn’t told Stark everything, and that very big omission was curious, indeed.
Stark went on. “So. You stay ... even more miserable as long as I’m miserable, and I stay miserable until-- Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” His oaths were punctuated by more little, dramatic raps of his skull against the wall behind them. “I don’t know if you know the term catch-22, but ... this is a really big one.
“God, this sucks. Whose shitty idea of a joke was this?”
He moved to explain to Stark--explain again--that it didn’t work that way, but he couldn’t blame the man for looking for deliberate action. For wanting to find a villain. Loki sighed, resigned. “What would you like to hear?”
“Nothing ... Nothing.” Could see Stark girding himself for something, and could guess what it was. “And ... when we go back to bed, just ... no touchy, okay?” Felt Stark pull his hand back. “Let’s not-- For a little while.”
“Of course,” Loki replied, and hated Thor, the Norns, the universe, and himself just a little bit more.