Chapter Text
You glance beside you as last year’s Best Actress takes the stage to a fanfare of applause and swelling strings, spotlights sliding to illuminate her as she smiles brightly out into the crowd. Wanda Maximoff is resplendent in a scarlet dress that wraps around her figure before cascading out into sleek folds and waves that seem liquid in the limelight, but you have eyes only for the man cast half into shadow by her augmented brilliance as he stares, rapt with attention and thrumming with anticipation, at the stage.
Loki turns to you as if feeling your gaze and offers a quick, confident smile as he squeezes your hand in his; to any onlooker, he would have seemed completely and utterly unperturbed, entirely devoid of any emotion save unadulterated enthusiasm for the awards and cloaked in the unattainable, composed charm that had audiences across the globe swooning.
But you know your husband better. Though he conceals it well, nervousness and jittery hope hide behind his excitement; they peek out in the tension of his neck and the focused intensity of his gaze as he watches Wanda introduce the other nominees for Best Actor.
He wears his raven hair slicked back tonight, and the dark strands that feather over the base of his neck and shoulders do so in stark contrast to the fine alabaster of his skin, shining softly over the inky black of his suit and the faint, blackened emerald embroidery shimmering on his jacket. He looks regal, even with the tension coursing subtly through his body, and you find yourself unable to look away from the sharpness of his captivated profile.
“Loki Friggason, for Jaguar: Rendezvous.”
Your attention snaps back to the screen behind Wanda as she steps aside after introducing Loki.
Loki, interestingly enough, darts a fleeting look your way before returning pensively to the screen, the corner of his mouth crooking as his image appears; he doesn’t particularly enjoy watching his own performances, you’ve learned, but at times like this where it would be awkward to avert his eyes entirely, he has made a habit out of taking the opportunity to take critical notes on his presentation.
“The thing is, I never feel guilty about my pleasures.”
Your own lips quirk as you bite back a laugh at the scene’s opening line, delivered smoothly in a matter-of-fact voice that delves into velvety suggestion. The Academy had certainly chosen to play to their televised audience tonight, it seemed.
Pity…Loki had let you read the script after he’d received it—or rather, he’d left it out on the cushion of an armchair one night and you had swooped in to read it before he realized that he’d misplaced it—and there was a dramatic, particularly gripping monologue a bit later on in the film that you would have loved to see fleshed out. Still, watching Loki play out the part of an innocent man reluctantly corrupted into becoming a seductive megalomaniac was entertaining no matter which villainous excerpt the Academy deigned to show the masses, and so you settle into your chair, a smile playing about your lips.
“Ooh, saucy little thing, hm?” you tease Loki under your breath; he breaks away from his adopted role of critic to roll his eyes at you and raises your hand to his lips, nipping at your knuckle under the guise of brushing a brief kiss to your skin.
Onscreen, Loki’s character, Tom, has cornered his love interest; you sweep your thumb absently over Loki’s hand as you watch him growl at her heatedly, “And I refuse to make you an exception.”
A strange, cold something rises uncomfortably in your chest as you watch Tom stalk towards Scarlett (played immaculately by the beautiful Natasha Romanoff, although your friend onscreen is far from recognizable, her signature vibrant red bob replaced by chestnut waves, none of her spitfire personality showing through the palpable fear on her character’s face). Your eyes narrow at the screen as you struggle to name the unfamiliar paroxysm spreading through your body.
“Tom, this isn’t some game. You can’t use people like this. I thought you cared about being a good person?”
Natasha’s delivery hits the perfect balance between plea and taunt, and the camera catches it in her eyes, as well as the manic, hackling fire in Loki’s eyes as the scene cuts back to Tom’s figure, camera focusing in on the prominence of his cheekbones under taut skin, a hint of stubble roughening the sharp delineation of his jaw.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Tom’s voice drops to a husky whisper, meant to raise goosebumps. Your body obeys, a prickling sensation sweeping over your limbs as you shiver subconsciously. “It’s good to be bad.”
His lips crash against hers and the click of handcuffs locking into place echoes over her protesting gasp. One hand seizes her chin tightly, fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he snarls, “I am ruthless, do you understand?”
The camera pans out, taking a wide shot of Tom crouching over Scarlett, turning her face from side to side with one hand and angling it cruelly as if considering which view of her terror is the most pleasing. (You know that this was Loki’s motivation for the unscripted blocking, thanks to his scribbled notes in the margins of the script.)
“I do so hate to disappoint you like this, but the truth of this world is that there are only two kinds of people in it: villains and idiots. I refuse to die knowing I could have made more for myself, could have been more.”
You recognize a smear of Loki in Tom’s wild-eyed, ghastly intense expression, as discomfiting as the knowledge is, and you watch, riveted, as he leers at the woman cowering under him. His hand slides up the length of her naked shin, and the discomfort in your chest darkens, wriggling into your lungs and tightening almost painfully around your ribs.
“Darling?”
You look over, startled, at the hushed, concerned query. Loki has broken from his brooding, critical occupation to look at you, a question fixed in his clear celadon eyes.
You shake your head in reassurance and he offers you a slight, pained smile; your brows furrow in confusion and Loki wriggles his fingers. With a shock, you realize that your grip had tightened drastically around his hand; you release him and watch with a dazed, morbid curiosity as blood rushes back to his long fingers and he flexes them gingerly.
“Sorry,” you whisper, but Loki has already turned back to the screen, and all you receive in response is a gentle pat on the hand and a small upturn of the corners of his mouth before you too plunge back into the drama unfolding onscreen.
“Foolish, blind people like Edmund and Iago can chase power all through their miserable lives because they crave it. But I’m one step ahead, Scarlett. Power craves me. I was meant to bring you the subjugation every fibre of your body longs for. I am the inevitable, the ultimate. It’s not about being good or bad. It’s about my destiny.”
Your eyes are wide as Tom finishes his speech, eyes alight with something between fury and pride. He leans in, the tip of his nose brushing Scarlett’s as he hisses gleefully, “And I am not guilty.”
The score explodes in a shriek of brass and violin when he lurches forward, biting down vehemently on Scarlett’s lower lip, hands tearing at the buttons on her shirt. Tom exhales hotly against her, allowing her a few precious seconds to draw in heaving breaths before he crushes her protests with another bruising kiss.
Her cry is swallowed by the booming dissonance of a piano chord as the screen abruptly cuts to a shot of Tom in bed, panting as he jerks awake from his nightmare. The lighting here is different, cooler yet somehow soft, as though the lighting department managed to drape a pale blue cotton sheet over the sun. The camera zooms out to reveal Scarlett sleeping peacefully beside him, one bare shoulder peeking out from beneath pristine white sheets as she rolls to face Tom, opening one eye to ask in a voice thickened by drowsiness, “Bad dream, baby?”
He nods wordlessly, shock and horror moving in slow waves over his face, and slides down slowly to rejoin her in bed, sweeping the knuckles of one unsteady hand gently over her cheek.
“Kiss me?” he requests woefully, voice hoarse and hollow, and the piano starts up a foreboding melody as she smiles sweetly, blissfully unaware of everything that has just transpired in his mind, and lays her lips over his in response.
The camera does not fail to capture his relief or the needy, desperate way he clings to her.
You feel sick. Although Tom’s hair is short and very, very blond, combed into springing curls over tan, slightly freckle-sprinkled skin, he wears Loki’s face, and the discomfort plummets suddenly from your chest to the pit of your stomach before leaping into your cheeks and remaining there as a dark flush as you finally put your finger on the emotion plaguing you.
Jealousy burns bitter in your throat, searing through your thoughts as the screen fades to black, taking away the frozen image of your husband in another woman’s embrace. You know this is stupid and groundless and petty, that there is an enormous gap between actors and their characters, not to mention the artificiality and synthesis of the art that is onscreen chemistry.
You know that Loki is steadfastly faithful, that it would never cross his mind to entertain some dalliance behind your back. You know that this was just part of his job (in fact, you’re fairly certain that he had called you from set the day this scene was filmed, because you remember him complaining about having to do sit-ups in a prop bed for hours because the director wasn’t satisfied with the scene, and you also recall that phone call containing an inordinate amount of “I love you”s and very specific pet names that Loki normally only broke out on anniversaries), and that Natasha is very happily involved with someone saved as “Tall, Dark, HANDsome” on her phone. (You can’t begrudge the woman her privacy, even if the unusual name does make you want to pry. After all, you remember the chaos when photos of you and Loki together were first leaked all too clearly.)
You know all of this, and yet the sour taste in your mouth lingers, weighing you down like lead in your intestines.
Loki’s hand brushes yours as he leans forward, and your forced smile softens a little at the genuine excitement glowing on his face. This is his night, you remind yourself harshly. He’s poured himself into this film and you know it, so you push down the burn of unwarranted jealousy as best you can and tune in to Wanda as she steps back up to the microphone.
“And the Academy Award for Actor in a Leading Role goes to…”
You can hear the capitalization in her words as Wanda pauses to open the envelope, smoky peridot eyes glittering as she stretches out the suspense and draws the paper out so slowly you think you might burst from holding back a scream.
Her eyes lift from the paper in her hand and a smile spreads across her painted lips. She leans into the microphone and says clearly, every syllable crisp and perfect, “Loki Friggason, for Jaguar: Rendezvous.”
Applause deafens you as you whip around to Loki, elation drowning out anything and everything else in your body, at least for that glorious moment. He looks dubious, mouth slack and eyes wide under high, rounded eyebrows, until you throw your arms around him and kiss his cheek, taking care not to leave a lipstick mark on his unblemished, pale skin.
The disbelief melts into an instant of shock before a broad, triumphant grin illuminates his face like dawn breaking on the horizon; he seizes you and kisses you straight on the mouth, hard, then saunters to the stage as cheerful drums and strings roll in his wake.
On anyone else, his self-assured gait and bright smirk would have been unbearably cocky, but Loki weaves them into the perpetual, magnetic allure that built his public image. If Wanda was resplendent as a queen, your husband is truly magnificent in a way that only gods can think to capture.
Two giant screens magnify your husband as he accepts the statuette and strides to the microphone; you don’t even bother to try sorting out the swirl of proud, delighted possessiveness, embarrassment, and assorted emotion that tangles itself in your chest at the sight of your lipstick very visibly staining his mouth like some kind of wine-hued overlay.
Natasha catches your eye from a few rows over and winks exaggeratedly; you wave an exasperated hand in her direction and you both share a silent laugh before you turn back eagerly to Loki.
He hefts the statuette, and you really aren’t sure whether it or his smile are brighter. “I would like to thank the Academy,” he begins, awestricken glee and gratitude obvious despite his outward composure, “for this award, it’s an unbelievable honour and I am so grateful to be here tonight. Thank you to my castmates and the amazing crew that made Jaguar: Rendezvous possible and such a pleasure to be a part of.”
Your stomach twists sharply as he names the director, producer, and Natasha in particular, and you remind yourself that this is all perfectly normal for an acceptance speech. After all, he’s wearing your lipstick like a badge of honour on live national television, not theirs.
“Working on this film was such a fantastic experience, going in search of the most vulnerable parts of my mind and forcing them out into the open so that Tom could take them and turn them into something thoroughly horrid was difficult, painful, and profoundly touching. His is a story of love and how easy it is to lose, and how easy it is to lose yourself when you go in search of it again. I hope that when people see this film, they see the tragic journey of a man who could be any of us, and I hope that it opens their eyes to the world we live in.”
Loki’s eyes are molten as he looks into the camera for a moment more before turning his gaze to the audience, homing in on where you sit with an intensity that pins you to your seat.
“And last but most certainly not least, an immense amount of gratitude is due to my wife, without whom I would never have been able to stand here tonight. Darling, thank you for enduring my absences and my moods, giving me a world of support no matter the distance between us, and tolerating my feeble attempts to reciprocate with the kindness of an angel.”
He raises two fingers to the side of his mouth, where your lipstick has marked him the darkest, and presses his fingertips to his lips before beaming at you. You know that it’s too far for him to really see you, let alone see you clearly, what with the distance and the bright spotlights obstructing his vision, but you blow a kiss back anyways, your chest brimming with emotion.
The jealousy has reduced itself to a pinprick, and you quash it beneath the heel of your heart as Loki continues despite the teleprompter beginning to flash at him as a warning that his allotted time is nearly over.
“Every time I look at you, I see a kingdom in your eyes, and I’m so grateful that you’ve chosen me to stand by your side and take on this life together. Thank you.”
The gold on his finger gleams beside the Oscar as he raises his clenched hand and walks offstage, practically glowing from within as he shares a celebratory smile and hug with Wanda. Natasha twists around to face you again with a comically over-exaggerated grin on her face as she pretends to swoon and fan herself. You’re sure that she’ll corner you for further teasing at the afterparty, so you only roll your eyes and flap a hand at her while stifling your own giggle.
As the closing remark speakers begin their short formalities, you allow your thoughts to turn to Loki, radiant pride settling warmly over your body. It had been silly of you to ever feel jealous because of one measly scene from a film he’d acted in, but obviously he deserved the award—he’d managed to make his own wife believe the heated attraction between his character and Natasha’s, for crying out loud. So it was no wonder that you’d reacted so fiercely—Loki was simply too gifted an actor.
You repeat this to yourself throughout the photoshoots and afterparties and brief interviews that followed the awards as you floated after Loki. It was true, wasn’t it?