Work Text:
London may be dazzling to look at from his vantage point, but even at this height, the sky stank of smog. Nothing much had changed in the last hundred years.
The sound of applause wafted from somewhere below, reminding him once again of his purpose. God, he wished he was in a warm bed instead of here on this roof, but it was leagues better than being cooped up in a room full of stuffy diplomats and too-tiny canapes.
"Is this seat taken?" A smooth, crisp voice shattered his reverie.
Bucky turned his head slowly. He had long perfected the art of being on guard while appearing perfectly nonchalant; whoever this was, they either had the ability to scale the 75 feet high wall of the building without setting off the alarms, or they could fly.
The latter probably, he thought, upon recognising who it was sashaying toward him. It was one of the dignitaries from New Asgard. Thor’s brother.
King Thor’s brother, Bucky corrected himself, an unconscious habit, an exercise in mindfulness.
"It's not my roof,” he said simply.
“Be that as it may,” the stranger said merrily, “I suppose I should still introduce myself. You Midgardians are big on introductions, are you not?”
“I know who you are, Prince,” Bucky murmured. His moment of solitude irreparably shattered now, he moved to rise, but the weight of an invisible hand suddenly pressed upon his shoulder.
“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” Loki said. “I chose to make my escape, just like you.”
“Didn’t think anybody saw me.”
"Young soldier like you, up here all alone. You attract attention."
"That's kinda the opposite of what I meant to do."
"Let me rephrase that. You attracted my - " A dramatic pause, "- attention."
Now what was Bucky supposed to say to that?
“Just needed some air,” he mumbled.
“Don’t we all,” Loki sighed. “If summits suit you ill, why did you come at all? From what I hear, Wakanda’s lovely at this time of year.”
Bucky blinked lazily. “I go where King T’Challa goes.”
"In what capacity?"
"Security detail."
The Asgardian plopped down on the tiles next to him, his green eyes dancing with delight. "Why, so am I!"
Bucky eyed the man's fancy leather get-up, the booted legs dangling over the edge. "You don't dress the part."
"Does it not inspire awe?" Loki smirked. "The way I dress?"
“It’s...a bit of a fashion overkill for dreary old London, but you do you.”
Loki went quiet.
Bucky grew uncomfortable as the silence stretched, from seconds to minutes. He worried not so much about hurting the guy’s feelings as committing a political snafu that could potentially put his head on the block, literally.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to insult you or anything, I run my mouth sometimes,” Bucky said. “No offense.”
“None taken," Loki said finally. “It has been some time since anyone spoke to me quite so freely.”
Bucky snorted. “Poor you.”
“You do not believe me?’
“Nope.”
Loki’s request was soft, its edges deadly. “Explain to me why.”
“Can’t imagine anyone not wanting to talk to you. You have that...oeuvre working for you.”
“Oeuvre?”
“You know, the package.”
“My...package," Loki articulated carefully.
“Yeah, looks, wealth, immortality,” Bucky said. “And then there’s the whole being a prince thing.”
“You think being a prince does anything for me?”
Bucky shrugged. The sneer on Loki's face was nothing he had not seen before. “Beats being a commoner, that’s for sure.”
“And yet here I am, making small talk with you.”
"I don't blame you. I’ve been around royalty,” Bucky said. “They can be boring as fuck.”
"Yes…" Loki drawled. "We sure can."
Bucky glanced at the Asgardian out of the corner of his eye. Gauging the measure of a man was a useful skill he had picked up from his years serving in the army, and now was as good a time as any to put that skill to the test.
Like his brother, Loki was stunning, possessing of an androgynous beauty the likes of which Bucky had never seen before. Sure, there was pride in his stance, the double entendres, the air of mystery befitting one of his stature and reputation...but this Loki of Asgard was an enigma.
And this dreamy languor Bucky could sense from him was not the languid ennui of the obscenely wealthy and privileged. It was a weariness, a deep-seated lassitude of someone who had perhaps lived far too long, and known too little happiness.
"I may be the master of words…" Loki said, "but I can read silences just as well."
His face reddening at having been caught staring, Bucky cleared his throat. "You're full of shit."
"And you could be a little quieter," Loki said sweetly.
Bucky’s nostrils flared. "What in the world are you talking about?"
"It is in the way you sit. The way you breathe." Loki gave him a side-glance. “The way you look at me.”
"I'm more than happy to get out of your way."
"Stay."
It sounded too much like an order, and Bucky had one knee up ready to lift himself off the ground to leave, before Loki surprised him with a tempered, soft, sincere, "It's intoxicating."
Bucky wondered what message his stunned silence was conveying, but Loki seemed to take it in stride. "You're intoxicating."
Bucky’s stomach flipped. “Explain.”
“I sense a kindred spirit in you.”
“I am nothing like you.”
Loki’s smile faded.
“I am worse,” Bucky said. Maybe it was the aperitif he had taken on an empty stomach hours ago, or maybe it was just the way the moonlight spilled across the pantile roof like paint, or maybe it was a spell, but the words were simply dying to be said.
I have murdered so many people, he wanted to say. Men, women, commoner, nobility, kings -
“So have I.”
Either Loki was a mind reader or Bucky had actually said the words out loud, but the damage had been done.
A pair of cold, cold hands gripped the sides of his face. “So have I, James.”
“Bucky,” he managed. “My name is Bucky.”
“So what say you, Bucky?" Loki asked, his mouth merely inches away, red and inviting. “Swap your demons for mine?”
"If I say no, what would you do?" Bucky asked.
Loki did not hesitate. "Wipe your memories, of course.”
Accurately reading Bucky's horror, Loki smirked. "Don't worry, Wolf. I wouldn't do that to you.”
In the fraction of a second before disbelief turned to relief, Bucky heard Loki say, “I know what it feels like when your mind isn’t your own,” and a chill ran down his spine.
“Oops.” There was the smirk again. “Did I say too much?”
“It depends,” Bucky said. “Did you come to me for a conversation, or did you come for something more?”
And in that moment, the perfect veneer slipped like the cracking of porcelain, and for a split-second Loki looked every one of his thousand odd years.
Before Bucky’s eyes, the cracks disappeared, but not before Bucky had them committed to memory. He may not yet understand this burning desire to kiss each and every line, but he would do it, for it was the most painted of faces that hid the deepest scars.
The night was still young. And there were no roof access ladders in the place.
Bucky would know, because he was the type who checked.
“Can Thor spare you for the next few hours or so?”
“What if he can’t?” Loki challenged. “What then?”
“You know what? I don’t care.”
A slow smile spread across Loki’s face. It must mirror Bucky’s in a way, for when they kissed, their lips fit together like a puzzle piece, and suddenly, London did not seem so dreary after all.
