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Why she lets him go, Loki will never know.
She's the one who did it to him, after all, this Natasha Romanoff. She's the one who enslaved his mind, made him SHIELD’s helpless tool, and locked him in a cage fit for a beast.
Yet, now she’s the one, freeing him from the clutches of the Mind Stone, opening the doors of his prison, grasping him firmly by the shoulders and supporting him as he stumbles, nearly collapsing where he stands. She’s the one, grasping his chin, looking him right in the eyes and whispering, “run.”
He does.
There’s no time to puzzle out the mystery this woman presents, no time to wonder if this is all some cruel trap. There is only pain and fear and a desperate, agonizing need to flee. There is only the feel of precious, wonderful consciousness rushing back in, of his feet pounding against the hard, metal floors, of his seidr already wrapping around him, spiriting him away. Taking him home.
He materializes on the edge of a large field, dropping to his hands and knees in the cool, dew drenched grass as soon as his feet touch the ground.
He isn't in Asgard, not even close. But he doesn't have the strength to wonder where he is, doesn't even have the strength to care. All he can seem to focus on is the pain. Agonizing, nauseating, pain, ruthlessly tearing him apart.
The blood rushing to his head pounds out an incessant rhythm, and he can hardly see past the blurred cerulean streaking his vision. Somewhere along the way, his leg has become a mangled, throbbing, broken mess of crimson splattered skin. The sight of it makes him retch, and he’s forced to turn away.
His armor is torn, and covered in his own blood, and his body must be riddled in bruises and scrapes, because it aches. Most of his wounds are mysteries to him, foreign things he doesn’t recall receiving. Yet, they’re there all the same, very, horribly real.
Worst of all is his mind. It still feels raw, vulnerable, as though someone has gone in, and scraped every bit of him out, replacing him with something cold, emotionless, inhuman. And, in essence, he supposes that is what they did.
Even now that he is free, he can still feel the power of the stone clinging to him, eagerly attempting to drag him back down into indigo oblivion. He can still feel the touch of the various people who controlled him, who made him their unwilling puppet. If he focuses hard enough he can even recall the looks of smug satisfaction on their faces, when they gave him an order and he obeyed.
Loki doubles over, heaving blood and bile into the grass.
He hates them, hates them all. These humans who kept his mind and body captive, and made a god do their bidding; who murdered his brother, and then acted as though it were a trivial matter.
They have taken everything, and lived to tell the tale.
His arms give way beneath him, and Loki collapses, face first onto the ground, breath coming in short, quick little gasps, body shuddering violently. Tears of fury and grief stream down his cheeks, smearing what little of the world he can see into abstract color.
"Why?" he whispers, pressing his forehead to the earth. It smells of dirt and blood; it smells of pain and death. “Why did you let them take you from me?”
The only answer he gets is the rippling of the wind through the grass, the sound of water lapping at some nearby shore.
Loki digs his fingernails into the ground and screams.
At some point, he blacks out, the pure, utter agony of it all ripping consciousness from his grasping fingers.
He dreams of Thor.
He dreams of his strong arms, holding him, and soft lips, caressing him; of his booming voice, loving him, teasing him, infuriating him; of his mighty, muscled body locked with his own, the two of them hopelessly, helplessly intertwined.
But when he asks him to stay, begs him to, Thor shakes his head.
"You know full well I cannot," he replies, cupping the back of Loki's neck. "But know this, brother, that I will always love you."
Then he fades away, leaving Loki to clutch vainly at nothing but air.
He comes to with fresh tears on his cheeks.
Night has fallen while he was out, if the darkness surrounding him is any indication. And when Loki manages to lift his head, he can just make out a sky twinkling with stars.
From what he can tell, the hold of the Mind Stone has lessened. At the very least, he can see more clearly.
The pain, however, has gotten one hundred times worse.
With great effort, he shoves himself upward, gritting his teeth against the urge to scream. The world tilts nauseatingly, and for a moment he's certain he'll fall back once more. He squeezes his eyes shut, and forces himself to breathe, just breathe…
When he pries them open again, his swimming vision has cleared just enough for him to take in his surroundings. He's sitting in the midst of a wide grassy field, stretching out to meet a sloping hill somewhere off in the distance. And straight ahead, close by and yet impossibly far away, is a quaint, little cottage.
Its thatched roof and worn, wooden door, speak of comfort and warmth, and all its windows are alight with a cozy glow. Thriving gardens surround it, the shapes of the various plants softly illuminated by the light from the house. They seem to shimmer as if touched by magic…an achingly familiar magic. One Loki would know anywhere.
“Thor.”
Slowly, agonizingly, Loki begins to crawl, towards the cottage. It beckons to him with an invisible hand, coaxing his protesting body forward. The closer he gets, the stronger the pull of it becomes, urging him on with the call of a lover long gone. He doesn’t understand it, can’t even begin to try. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the firm knowledge that he will be there waiting for him. If only he can make it to the door.
Fool, his mind derides. Your brother is dead, dead and gone. There is nothing for you here.
But he can't believe that, not now, not when Thor's fertility magic is staring him right in the face.
Just make it to the door.
The pain is growing steadily worse as he goes. He crawls on his hands and knees, blood mingling with the moist dirt as he drags his leg behind him. His headache has become so intense he's certain the pulsing in his temples is visible to the naked eye. Bile rises in his throat again, and he swallows it back, with difficulty. He grits his teeth against the agony of it all.
Just make it to the door.
Darkness is approaching swiftly, coming for him once more, to swallow him, consume him, take away this last bit of hope. Every part of him hurts. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t cry out as he stumbles, collapses, gasping, sobbing. His body is on fire. He retches, stomach heaving to expel nothing at all.
Just make it to the door.
“Thor!” The cry comes out strangled and hoarse, the words searing their way out of his parched throat.
Help me, brother. Help me!
Just make it to the door.
He tries to get up, falls once more, hands giving way beneath his weight. He lies there, face pressed against the ground, his body aching, mind going numb as consciousness slips away, away, away…
“Loki?”
The voice floats to him through a fog, and he reaches for it.
Brother.
Someone is running towards him, feet pounding the soft ground. Above him, thunder crackles across the sky.
“Loki!”
Hands are on him now, turning him over, cupping his face, brushing over his arms and legs. He's safe beneath their touch.
Then, he’s being scooped off the ground and held, loving, tenderly. He’s being carried away.
“Hold on, brother.”
Someone presses a kiss to his head, wraps their arms tighter around him, ever conscious of his wounds. They smell like Thor, sound like Thor, feel like Thor.
“I’m here,” they say, voice the sound of falling rain and rumbling thunder. “Just hold on.”
The darkness is coming, fast and hard, consuming him, dragging him down. Loki doesn’t fight it; he doesn't need to.
At long last, he's home.
Pain.
That is the first thing his mind registers, as he surfaces, gasping for air. Aching, throbbing, horrible pain, that claws at him, tearing his mind and body to shreds.
He shifts, trying to find some way to lessen the agony. His leg throbs, at the movement, and even with his eyes closed he sees stars. A whine issues from his lips before he can stop it.
"Shhh, it's alright," a familiar voice soothes. "Just breathe."
A hand comes to rest on his head, begins brushing strands of wet hair back from his face.
“Thor," he whimpers, grasping blindly for his hand.
He needs to touch him, feel him, to ensure he doesn’t fade away, another illusion gone into the wind. But his hand is solid beneath Loki's own, warm and wonderfully, miraculously real.
Thor makes a sound like a choked sob.
“I'm no illusion, Loki," he says, voice thick with emotion. "I'm real, and I'm here. I promise you, I will not leave your side."
He clasps Loki's hand in both of his own, and brings it down to rest on the bed.
"Sleep, brother," he whispers, pressing a kiss to Loki's forehead. "You are safe now."
And Loki believes him.
He drifts.
For the next couple of days, maybe even weeks, he bobs in and out of consciousness. Waves of pain buffet his semi-conscious hours, and when he sleeps, tangled, gory dreams haunt him, dreams of blood and screams and a world of endless destruction tinged in blue.
Yet, through it all, Thor is with him.
He washes and dresses his wounds, urges water past his parched and uncooperative lips, sponges the feverish sweat from his forehead. And while he works he talks to him.
The sound of his voice follows Loki wherever his foggy mind wanders. It gently nudges away his nightmares, replacing them with recollections of youthful battles and childhood romps. It weaves through the haze of pain, bringing with it joyful remembrances of nights spent snuggled together, whispering secrets in bed; of countless stolen kisses, sweet as the apples growing in Mother's orchard; of the time they finally dared to know one another, horribly awkward, yet no less loving for it.
As he speaks Thor touches him—holds his hand, strokes his head, brushes his hair back behind his ears—as if he can sense how badly Loki needs to feel as well as hear him.
And not once does he leave his side.
Sometimes, Loki hears other voices joining Thor's, their tones utterly unfamiliar, yet their conversations intriguing nonetheless.
"Hey man, Miek and I were just walking by, and thought we'd pop in, check on you two. Everyone doing alright? Can we get you guys anything?"
"No, thank you, Korg. We're doing fine here."
Or,
"So, how's he holding up?"
"I think he's doing a bit better."
"Good. Cause you both need a bit of sunlight and a good bath. You look like shit."
Sometimes these visitors stay, talking with Thor in hushed tones that Loki can't make out. Other times, they only stay for a second or two, before they're gone again, leaving only him and Thor to face whatever horrors the night brings.
Gradually, his mind and body piece themselves back together, beneath Thor's care. His times of consciousness begin to last longer, his thoughts grow clearer, his wounds less painful. Slowly, ever so slowly, he feels himself surfacing from the hazy depths he's been drowning in, Thor's presence the only thing keeping him from succumbing completely. And then, finally, one day, he opens his eyes.
Sunlight is the first thing he sees, bright and blinding, streaming through the open window and onto the bed. He blinks a few times, eyes tearing up as they struggle to adapt.
He's in a small bedroom, plain but cozy nonetheless. The walls are painted a nondescript crème, and the furniture is all the same dark, deep shade of brown. There's a dresser in the corner, with some books and miscellaneous clothing draped across it and a little bedside table set with a lamp.
The bed he's lying upon is large enough, though nothing like his own in Asgard, and covered in crimson sheets. Their deep shade contrasts starkly with the deathly pale of Loki's skin. Right beside the bed a chair sits, empty. Someone has slung a faded navy duvet sloppily across it, and pushed it crooked as if jumping out of it in a haste.
Loki stares at it for a few moments, then pushes up on one elbow and peers around the room. Thor is nowhere to be seen.
He hasn't left this entire time, Loki knows he hasn't, so why wouldn't he be here now?
He shoves himself fully into a seated position, wincing a bit at the remnants of soreness in his body. Panic is rising rapidly within him, despite his best efforts to shove it down. He knows logically everything is likely fine. Thor has probably just gone to relieve himself or fetch something to eat. But Loki's mind is still foggy and jumbled, and his thoughts are already hurtling past all use of logic.
Taking a deep breath, he pushes himself out of bed, pointedly ignoring his body's protests at such swift movement. Then, he's limping as fast as he can toward the bedroom door. It's slightly askew, allowing a tiny glimpse of the rooms beyond. He doesn't waste time in flinging it open and plunging into the narrow hallway.
Only a short way down there's a quaint living area set with a leather couch, a chair, and a strange rectangular device seated on a small table. Two beings look up from their perch atop the couch as Loki catapults into the room, nearly tripping over long strands of what looks like rubber rope.
"Hey man," one of them, a Kronan says, his voice strikingly familiar. He waves a large hand genially. "Good to see you up and about. I take it you're feeling better?"
Loki stares at him for a moment, brain sluggishly trying to comprehend what he's seeing. Then, he steps forward, a dagger materializing instantly in his hand.
"Where am I?" The words burn his throat, and his voice quivers with fear, despite his attempts to steady it. "And where is my brother?"
"Alright, alright, just calm down," the Kronan says, holding up his hands in surrender. "Your brother had to run off to town for a second. Some of his buddies needed his help with something. Not to worry, though, he said he'd be back soon."
Town. He's in town.
Loki backs up, holding the dagger out in front of him as if it'll do anything at all to defend him should this massive pile of rocks decide to attack.
"How do I get to town?"
"Oh, no, see man, you should stay here. Thor'll be back shortly and he wouldn't want you to hurt yourself running all that way."
The dagger transforms into a green ball of energy that Loki sends hurtling towards the Kronan’s head, stopping it just short of collision. The other creature lets out a surprised and angry squeak. Loki pays it no mind.
"How do I get to town?"
The Kronan looks from the energy ball to Loki and back again. Then, he shrugs.
“Just follow the road to the left. You can’t miss it."
Loki backs up three more steps, before he allows his seidr to dissipate. Without another word, he turns and runs.
The road is there, just like the Kronan said it would be, stretching from the cottage doorstep off into the distance. Loki is on it in an instant, heedless to the agony of his feet slapping against hard brick, deaf to the sound of birds chirping out their morning song, blind to the strangers who turn to stare as he careens into town.
By the time he skids into the square, his head is pounding and his lungs are burning. But he ignores the pain, turning instead to stare up at the huge spaceship looming before him. And standing beside it, even his large form dwarfed by the massive size of the ship, is Thor.
Only, he doesn't look like his Thor at all.
His hair and beard are long, longer than Loki has ever seen them, and braided back; he's put on weight—a lot of it—and when Loki steps closer, he realizes his eyes are mismatched, one that familiar bright blue, the other a light brown. There's something different about the way he holds himself too, some inexplicable sorrow, that his shoulders seem to droop beneath.
This man, this variant, whoever he may be, is not his Thor.
Loki begins to walk forward, without truly comprehending his own movements. His heart thuds maniacally in his chest.
"...I need to get back to my brother," the variant is saying, in that comforting voice Loki knows so well; the voice that kept him alive these past weeks. "Take whatever parts you need, from around town, and I'll check in later. Just," and here he looks pointedly at a little racoon-like animal that's poking its head out from amongst the wires and controls atop the ship, "don’t steal any body parts."
"Oh, come on," the racoon protests, "not even one?"
"No, not even one."
It huffs an exasperated sigh. "Way to take the fun out of everything."
The variant chuckles, the sound like beautiful torture upon Loki's ears. "Nice seeing you, rabbit."
Then he turns, takes two steps forward and freezes, eyes going wide as he finally catches sight of Loki, who's now so close they could reach out and touch each other.
"Okay, okay, what’s with the creepy goth guy here?" the racoon asks. Then, his nose scrunches up as the realization hits him. "Wait, is that your brother?"
The variant doesn't reply.
"Loki," he breathes, fear and joy mingling in his voice. "Brother, are you—"
Loki holds up a shaking hand, though whether to silence him or stop reality from playing out before his eyes, not even he knows.
"You're not…you're not him."
Something raw and broken enters the variant's expression. He takes another step forward, reaching out for Loki.
"Loki, I—"
But Loki shakes his head, fiercely. He begins to back away, blinking in an attempt to clear the tears that are flooding his eyes.
"No–no you're not him; you're not my Thor."
My Thor is dead, dead because of that mortal, dead because of me.
He stumbles, barely manages to catch himself. His throat constricts and he's certain he's going to vomit.
The variant continues to advance on him, slowly, cautiously, as though he is a wild animal about to bite.
"Please, brother," he begs, voice thick with emotion, "please, just let me explain."
He reaches out once more, nearly managing to grasp Loki's arm but Loki slaps him away.
"I'm not your brother," he hisses, shock and sorrow rapidly turning to anger, "I never was."
A dagger materializes in his hand without conscious command, and he's pointing it threateningly at the variant seconds later.
"Why did you do it? Why did you take me in when you knew I wasn't yours to take? Why, when you could've just let me die?"
The variant drops his arms, at last, and stands in place, looking lost and horribly sad.
"Loki," he whispers, and it feels like someone has taken hold of Loki's heart and squeezed.
In two strides he's upon the variant, pressing the dagger against his neck.
"Why didn't you just let me die?!"
A tear runs down the variant's cheek and drops into his beard. Slowly, he reaches out and cups the back of Loki's neck.
"Because, I love you," he says, tenderly, brokenly, and Loki's heart shatters.
The dagger falls, clattering to the ground, and then he's running, seidr enveloping him, bearing him away, away from here, away from the man who isn't his brother and yet is, all at the same time; away from the pain, and the fear, and the guilt that's he's certain will eat him alive if he stays.
The last thing he sees is the variant's face, streaked in tears, before he disappears in a cloud of emerald.
Loki materializes back at the cottage. Why his seidr keeps bringing him back here, to this place of welcome, this place of torture, he has no idea. And he doesn't have the strength to care.
He makes it as far as the front stoop, before he collapses, choking on the sobs that rip their way out of his throat. Everything aches from the onslaught of physical activity after so long staying sedentary. Even the raindrops that begin to fall from the now clouded sky feel as though they're scorching his skin. Yet he lacks the will to move out of the torrent.
So, there he remains, huddled against the bottom step, legs raised up to his ears, face hidden in his hands to shield it from the downpour, tears mingling with the rain drenching every part of his body, until the variant comes.
Loki doesn't budge when he eases down beside him, doesn't even do more than stiffen when he wraps a tentative arm around him and pulls him close. And if, after a brief moment, he snuggles into him just slightly, well, there's no one there to see anyway.
They sit like that in silence for a while, as the rain gradually subsides and night falls. It's only when the first star has appeared in the sky, that Loki speaks.
"It's my fault he died." His voice sounds hollow, emotionless, nearly as wrung out as he feels. He doesn't even know why he's saying this, why he feels the need to explain. But here he is doing it anyway.
"I didn't have to interfere, I could've left well enough alone, stayed in my place." He huffs a bitter laugh. "But no, I just had to muck everything up. Because I was jealous." He pauses, staring up at that one, twinkling star, as a lone tear trickles down his cheek. "Without me, he never would've been banished. He never would've been on Midgard when that mortal decided to exact his revenge. And he would still be alive today."
The weight of his confession seems to echo across the land, bouncing off trees and houses to taunt him on an endless loop. Loki squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stem the flow of tears. He didn't think he had any left to cry.
The variant's grasp on him tightens ever so slightly.
"I couldn't save him either," he says, after a few moments of silence, "the other Loki, my Loki."
Loki lifts his head, peering up at him with wide eyes. The variant doesn't meet his gaze.
"Thanos attacked when we were most vulnerable. He killed many of our people; even our most skilled warriors fell before him. I tried to kill him and failed. And then…and then Loki came along." His voice breaks, and he swallows, inhaling a shaky breath. When he speaks again his voice is quivering so severely it's a wonder he can get the words out at all. "I was supposed to protect him, I was supposed to save him. But when that monster broke his neck, all I could do was watch."
For a moment Loki feels as though he can't breathe. Thanos, Thanos, killed the Loki in this universe. Thanos, the being who placed that cursed staff in his hands, who sent him on a mission to retrieve the Tesseract, and promised him nothing but pain if he failed.
"Did-did you kill him?" He manages to ask after a moment. "Thanos, I mean."
The variant nods. "I did, eventually"—Loki breathes a sigh of relief at that—"but it didn't matter; the deed was done. Nothing I did, nothing I ever do, can bring him back."
He pauses, tilts his head to look up at the sky.
"When you came," he says, at last, slowly, "when I found you half-dead in my yard, it felt like a second chance; an opportunity to make things right. I may not have been able to save my Loki, but perhaps I could save another. Only," he lets out a humorless chuckle, "I think I just managed to mess things up again."
Loki sits silently for a moment, letting everything he's just heard digest. Then he shrugs, slightly.
"You saved my life," he points out. "I'd say that counts for something."
At last, the variant turns to look at him. The expression on his face is so vulnerable, so broken that Loki almost wants to glance away. That face, the face of his brother, should never bear such a look.
Carefully, Loki reaches up, and brushes a stray strand of hair from the variant’s face, watching as he leans into his touch.
"Back there, in town, you said you loved me," he says, carefully. "Was that-was that the truth?"
The variant nods without hesitation.
"Of course. I could never not love you, Loki."
Loki swallows, hard. His hand finds another strand and places it behind the variant's ear.
"You know, I will never be him, don't you? I'm not your Loki any more than you are my Thor."
Again, the variant nods. "I know that; I've known that since I found you that night." His gaze travels downward, evading Loki's. "I never expected you to be him, and…and I never expected you to accept me as you did your own brother. I only hoped that, maybe, even if I wasn't your Thor, I could be…something to you."
Loki inhales shakily. His eyes cloud with tears once again, as hope and joy and deep, dark sorrow wrestle within him.
This man is not Thor, can never be his Thor. And yet, he loves him like his Thor did, nursed him back to health with the same attentive care as his Thor would have, saved his very life with that same hopeless heroism his Thor always possessed.
This Thor will never be his brother, but maybe, just maybe, he can still be his.
"You don't have to stay here, though," the variant is saying now, "I want you to know that. All I want is for you to be happy, and if your universe is where that is, then…that is where you should be."
Loki follows his gaze down to where it rests on their two hands, intertwined between them. He doesn’t even recall their fingers interlacing.
He could go back to his universe, of course. If his seidr took him here, it’s only plausible it could carry him back. He could exact revenge on SHIELD for what they did to him, could return to Asgard, see Mother again, perhaps even rule. Maybe, given time and resources, he could even kill Thanos. He could be powerful, prosperous–a true god-king.
But, Mother’s voice whispers in the back of his mind, would you be truly happy?
Loki looks back up, at the bent head of the man before him, golden locks waving in the wind, and he knows his answer.
“There’s nothing for me back there, in my universe,” he says, quietly. “Nothing but pain, anyway.”
The variant lifts his head so fast, it nearly collides with Loki’s nose. His eyes are shining with wetness, but now there’s the slightest hint of hope within them.
“You may not be my Thor,” Loki continues, “but you are Thor, nonetheless. And, I can’t—I can’t live a life without you in it.”
The variant—no, Thor—smiles, even through the tears now streaming down his cheeks.
“You-you want to stay?” he asks, as if he can’t believe that that’s even a possibility in Loki’s mind.
Loki can’t quite keep from rolling his eyes.
“Yes, you dolt, I want to stay.”
No sooner have the words left his mouth, than Thor lurches forward, and presses his lips to Loki’s in a desperate, hungry kiss. Loki stiffens for only a moment before he melts into it, eyes fluttering shut as he wraps his arms around Thor’s neck and pulls him closer.
He doesn’t taste like his Thor did. No, his taste is all his own, achingly familiar, yet tantalizingly new, earthy and sweet with a hint of salt from his tears. Loki savors it for as long as he can.
When at last they pull apart, breathless and exhilarated, Thor is grinning from ear to ear.
“Thank you, Loki,” he says, cupping the back of his neck, tenderly. “Thank you for staying with me.”
Loki can think of many things to say in reply, some of them teasing, some of them touching, some of them simple and sweet. But there is only one thing he wants to say.
So, he leans forward, presses his forehead to Thor’s and whispers, “I love you.”
And no, this isn’t his Thor, and no he never will be, but by the Norns, Loki means every word. Because at last, he is home.