Work Text:
Excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Fix You":
“Whatcha reading?”
It was a rare but not altogether unprecedented event for someone to engage him in line. Midgardians were more prone to meaningless interactions than the average witless Asgardian. Several times, strangers had attempted to involve him in dreaded small talk centering around the weather or the traffic. Likely, the person attempting to secure his attention simply desired a diversion from the ennui of waiting to reach the front of the line.
Even so, the man behind him was markedly close, so close that Loki could feel every exhale upon his cheek. It was possible that Loki had misinterpreted Midgardian norms, but he had deduced long ago that several feet of distance typified most conversations, particularly those between strangers. He had always appreciated that particular custom.
“Hamlet,” Loki offered curtly as he endeavored to quell the instinctive stiffening of his spine.
“Say again?”
It took all of Loki’s considerable restraint to disguise his frustration. Thomas Walker wore threadbare clothes and overly large glasses to cultivate a sense of oddness. Normally, his appearance kept others distant, but it did not always engender the desired effect in particularly outgoing individuals. Still, Loki could not help but acquiesce to running an irritated hand through the unruly curls atop his head.
“I am reading Hamlet,” the god repeated once he had wrangled control over his impatience. After a moment of consideration, he held the book aloft so the stranger behind him could glimpse the cover.
“Oh. Cool.”
The tone had morphed into polite disinterest, exactly as Loki had hoped. Now, he could feign reabsorption in his book until he reached the front of the line. After that, Loki would order his sandwich and promptly escape to the nearby park for a more private dining venue.
Unfortunately, the intrusion made it impossible for Loki to immerse himself back in the world of betrayal, ghosts, and madness. Rather, he carefully tracked the progress of the customers in front of him as they trudged forward in line. By the time two more had received their orders, the stranger behind him had begun to exhibit audible impatience, complete with phone tapping and increasingly heavy sighs.
Even so, Loki focused fixedly on his book and counted silently to thirty before turning each page. He could only pray that the stranger would respect his obvious effort at concentration until he reached the counter.
“So, are you an English teacher or something?”
This time, Loki managed only a perfunctory effort at keeping a frown from his face. “I am not,” he refuted, just loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the patrons seated at the surrounding tables.
His denial afforded him a few precious seconds of respite. “You have to be a librarian then. No one actually reads Shakespeare for fun.”
The man behind him staggered an inch or so closer, apparently jostled by the press of bodies intent on squeezing together in the limited indoor space. Loki closed his eyes and focused on deep, even breaths. The deli was more crowded than he preferred. Normally, he arrived before the height of lunch hour, but today, he had been later than usual. His employer had lingered by his cubicle for an update on the crime novel that Loki was translating into French and promptly assigned him a bodice ripper for next week.
“Hamlet is considered a classic work of literature,” Loki answered, striving with his last modicum of discipline to maintain the steadiness of his tone.
Despite his best efforts at calm, the heat of the body behind him was overtaking his thoughts. Even before his tumble through the Void, he had avoided close proximity to others. Now, he could hardly endure it without succumbing to the physical manifestation of his weakness. More than anything, Loki desired to flee, but that would only draw attention. Besides, the god knew objectively that he was overreacting. The man behind him was simply sociable, perhaps a bit bored. Loki had not been discovered; he was safe.
“It’s a classic work of torture for high school students and pretentious hipsters.” There was more shuffling behind him; Loki could feel his own façade slipping in response. “So, why are you reading it?”
“Not everyone is too obtuse to enjoy real art,” the prince muttered before he could stem his vitriol.
Heat had always disproportionately affected him, but now sweat dotted his brow despite the brisk March air. Only one more person stood between him and his order. Today, Loki would retreat to his cubicle rather than risk a walk through the park. Perhaps he would indulge in listening to music while he worked. Debussy always managed to sooth the worst of his ire.
“I mean, I’d argue that calling Shakespeare’s stuff art is a little generous.” The man behind him sounded distinctly amused, which Loki could not even begin to rationalize. “But hey, I’m basically a glorified mechanic. The classic literature thing never really appealed to me.”
Loki would never understand why Midgardians were so quick to share personal information with strangers. Judging by the rushed cadence of his speech, the man behind him enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Unfortunately, Loki was familiar with the type. In the past, he himself might even have exhibited similar traits.
“So, was I right about the whole librarian schtick? I mean, you’re rocking a tweed suit and reading Shakespeare for fun. I have to be close.”
It was dearth of desire rather than lack of practice that kept Loki from continuing their mostly one-sided conversation. Playing along would likely ease the awkwardness of their exchange, but Loki could not bring himself to cooperate. After giving up so much for the sake of survival, the god had come to view his weekly visits to the deli as a source of solace. He saw no reason to participate in befouling it with unwanted attention.
Rather than respond, the prince hugged Hamlet close and counted down the seconds until he would reach the front of the line. The person ahead of him was paying now; there was no real reason to answer. After a few more seconds, it was finally his turn.
“I would like a turkey sandwich on wheat bread with every available topping,” Loki informed the vaguely familiar cashier behind the counter.
He groped in his pocket for the few crumpled bills that he had carefully allotted for this occasion, only for unfamiliar fingers to curl around his elbow. For an instant, Loki faltered, an instinctive response after years of experiencing virtually no physical contact. He reeled long enough for the interloper to lean past him and tuck an indiscriminate amount of cash into the clerk's hand.
“Make that two with white bread on mine.” The stranger was bold enough now to step up beside him. “Keep the change.”
It had taken some effort to adjust to the mannerisms of Thomas Walker. Where Loki was quick to anger, Thomas was unfailingly polite. His every articulation was carefully diffident and his every gesticulation consistently reserved. No complication could faze him, and no Midgardian could rile him.
Thomas was the perfect disguise.
But Loki was frustrated.
And in his frustration, Loki whirled to face this meddler who dared impinge on the sanctity of his weekly splurge.
He recognized this man’s face.
In fact, Loki was intimately familiar with that peculiar pattern of facial hair and the accompanying toothy smirk. He remembered the inexplicable hum of power, the source of which he had never been able to identify. Most horrifying of all, he knew those glimmering brown eyes. Even now, he could recall how they had narrowed in loathing amidst fervent threats and diverting jibes.
It was Stark.
This was the fool whose life Loki had saved under the very noses of his masters. Here was the hero who had promptly repaid him through entrapment, mockery, and humiliation. Before him was Anthony Stark, the supposed genius of Midgard, a genius who, like all the rest, had never suspected Loki of anything but treachery.
Out of all the Avengers, Loki had always dreaded meeting Stark the most.