Work Text:
Loki’s world has collapsed into a dark, suffocating, soundless cocoon, tightly wrapped around him.
Logically, he knows he is still in his cell. This was where they took him, hissing and struggling, after his escape attempt was foiled before he even got to step two of his plan.
Not that it was that sound of a plan, but the really good ones are hard to come by in a place like Sanctuary.
Loki took the risk anyway and he failed.
Like always.
He can’t say how long it’s been. It could’ve been a day, or a month, or a year.
It’s impossible to measure the passage of time, with only his scattered thoughts to fill the void created by the absence of his senses.
The infernal device that still remains locked around his throat took not only his magic this time, but also his sight, his hearing, his sense of smell and taste, and even numbed his feeling of touch.
That last part he is actually thankful for, for he can only vaguely register the strain in his trapped limbs, the implacable throb of thirst in his throat and the iron grip of hunger clenching his stomach. It would be much worse without it.
He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take for them to return, either. Perhaps they never will. Perhaps his punishment is to be the slow, agonizing death of deprivation, while he lies there, strung up in the dark, unable to hear even his own screams or pleading moans. Abandoned, broken and completely, utterly alone.
As is his birthright.
---
It feels almost like being back in the Void, and Loki hates it with all his heart that he now has something to compare the no-time he’s spent in the space between the worlds to. It was supposed to be his escape. His way out. An undignified and dishonorable perhaps, but at least a merciful end.
Yet, he was denied even that.
Sometimes he thinks he truly died there. A part of him certainly did. Perhaps what he thinks of as himself is just the last spark of awareness left in the husk of his body, pushing forth just with the momentum remaining from his fall, with no meaning or purpose? Perhaps the real Loki is now wandering the misty valleys of Hel, finally at peace, completely unaware that his physical shadow continues to exist?
Perhaps, if he tries hard enough, he can get that last spark to fade as well, leaving just his body to suffer, vacated.
Or maybe that death didn’t come to him in the Void, but even before, as the fateful “no, Loki,” seeped from the All-Father’s lips, making Loki’s mind crack open and shatter.
His brain displays a vision of his… – no, not home, it never was and could never be – on the perfectly blank canvas before his eyes. The brilliant sun, the rainbow bridge leading to the castle gleaming in the distance, Thor and his friends, laughing and drinking, no longer perturbed by Loki’s inconvenient presence, the All-Father lounging on his golden throne, the All-Mother strolling among the blooming trees in the royal gardens, all so vivid and lifelike. It feels so real Loki thinks he might be able to reach out and touch…
The manacles and the backside of the collar grind against the metal floor of the cell, sending vibrations through his bones and the scene fades.
Loki forces his limbs to relax. It doesn’t help the sudden tightness in his chest that only grows as he sucks in a careful breath through his nose. His eyes start to sting, so he closes them and tears slip out and tumble down his temples, leaving cool trails on his skin.
Then he just lies there, his mind blissfully empty, until uneasy sleep claims him, bringing forth dreams that are just as dark, as silent and as empty as his reality.
---
There are whispers in the dark – too low to discern, as if staying just outside of his earshot out of spite – and shapeless, vague outlines hovering at the edges of his vision that scatter and disappear the moment he tries to focus on them.
Deep down, Loki knows it’s not real, just the disjointed afterimages of sensations his mind produces, deprived of all external stimuli, but he can’t stop himself from paying attention. It’s the only thing that’s there, and perhaps if he strains hard enough, he might finally understand what the voices are saying and make out the images that scuttle away from him each time he looks.
The efforts only leave him drained and he slips in and out of consciousness for a while.
Soon, he finds himself unable to tell one from the other.
---
He is drifting again, weightless, in the vast nothingness that surrounds him. There are thoughts, whistling past him, scraps of notions and feelings and desires, but he is too tired to pay them any attention, just lets them slip by and fall between his fingers, unrealized.
A touch on his forehead comes so sudden and so intense, that feels like a jolt of electricity running through his body. His spine arches and the pieces of awareness of his surroundings snap back into place, all at once; the hard floor underneath his back, the bite of metal on his wrists, ankles, neck and in his mouth.
The touch is still there and he wants to jerk away and lean into it both. He does neither, afraid that exploiting even the small range of movement still available to him will make it go away.
But even that doesn’t help, and the pressure lingers only for a short while before disappearing.
He wants to scream and moan and beg, just to make it come back.
Perhaps he even does.
And perhaps, somehow, it works, because the touch is here again, now even more prominent than before, and he can feel the texture of the rough cloth and the cool wetness it leaves behind, as it travels across his forehead, his temples, his cheeks and along the line of his jaw.
It goes away again, but is soon replaced by warm hands under his head, lifting it off the ground and reaching to the clasp of the gag at the nape of his neck.
The bit slips out of his mouth and his skin prickles, as circulation returns to the areas the metal band was pressing down on just a heartbeat ago.
The hands disappear, now replaced with something soft under his neck, keeping his head off the ground and tipping it forward slightly and Loki allows himself a relieved breath, relishing in the feeling of it passing his lips unobstructed.
Something is pressed to his lips and coolness spills in his mouth. It takes him a moment to realize it’s water. He gulps it down, greedily, even if he cannot really taste it and every swallow hurts as his bobbing throat scratches against the tight collar. Just feeling the pangs of thirst slowly subsiding and the long-forgotten sensation of his stomach filling is enough to make it a worthy exchange.
The cup is removed, but then quickly returns with a fresh portion and Loki drinks it too, then the cloth is back, wiping the droplets his hasty attempts have left on his chin and dripping down the corners of his mouth.
Thank you, he tries to say as it retreats, but he has no idea if he manages.
Another cup arrives at his mouth, but, where the water felt cool, this one is warm, warmer than the hands even. The liquid is thicker, too, as it travels down his throat, and a bit harder to swallow. He still does. It might be soup going by the way it settles in his stomach without disturbing it and he dedicates a portion of his mental capacity to imagining how it might taste like, but abandons the task quickly, because each attempt unequivocally arrives at the poultry broth served to patients in the Asgardian infirmary.
When the meal is finished, he doesn’t attempt to speak again, just nods, slightly. He cannot know whether the person at his side even cares – he suspects they do not, no one on Sanctuary does – but it’s unforthcoming to be ungrateful.
A while passes without any new event and Loki tenses. He suspects that, now that the water and food is gone, all that’s left for his mysterious caretaker is to replace the gag and leave. He isn’t looking forward to it, but knows resistance will only make it worse. He parts his lips slightly, waiting for the restraint to be reapplied. The bruises from the last time he fought it are probably still to fade fully from his jaw.
Instead, a hand slips underneath his neck again and lifts him up a bit further, until the chains tethering his wrists to the floor pull taut, and when he’s lowered again, the back of his head rests against something. He turns his head and rubs his cheek against it. It’s warm and smooth and it moves, ever so slightly. Fingers smooth out his hair, slowly and gently, then rest on his cheek, the thumb rubbing the sore corner of his mouth soothingly.
Somewhere, in the dark recess of his mind, a notion that it couldn’t be right lurks. There’s nobody on Sanctuary to care for Loki’s fate. There’s nobody in the whole wide universe even, not anymore. It’s just another trick, another method to break him, a poisonous gift they give him just to rip it away…
Something breaks inside him, something strained and tense finally crumbling away and he squeezes his eyes shut, but even that isn’t enough to stop the tears from coming. They pool under his eyelids and streak from the corners of his eyes, no matter how hard he is trying to hold them in. A finger brushes the skin under his eyes, wiping them away and then there’s an arm around him, holding him in the person’s lap and rocking, slowly, back and forth.
Loki buries his face deeper into his mysterious visitor’s clothes and allows the sensation to carry him away and lull him to sleep.
---
When he wakes up, the person is gone and his lips are properly sealed again.
Did he imagine it? That would be the most obvious explanation. But he can still feel the afterimage of warmth on his skin, the weight of food in his stomach…
It makes no sense, this random, undeserved act of kindness, not here.
He cannot find it in him to question it though.
---
He resorts to spending most of his time hoping the person would come back.
They never do.
---
He learns later that he has spent ninety daily cycles in the cell. He doesn’t dare to question it, not with the darkness still lurking in the corners of his vision, as he kneels in front of Thanos’ throne, declarations of unfaltering loyalty spilling from his lips in a rush. He needs to get them out before they can silence him again.
Thanos smiles and waves him away and only when Loki’s leaving the hall he allows himself to raise his gaze from the ground and study the gathered crowd, a collection of indifferent faces, from all across the universe.
Down in the back row, a green-skinned woman gives him a small nod, just as his eyes reach her and he just knows. He bows in return, a faint, feeble gesture that passes under the scrutiny of the guards.
---
Seven cycles later Loki and Gamora steal a ship and escape Sanctuary together to find the Power Stone, before Thanos does.