Chapter Text
Loki waited for two full days before finally accepting that the burning sensation below his breastbone was not a relic of “Taco Tuesday” at Stark Tower, especially since he hadn’t even touched the nasty things. The smell alone had been enough to turn his stomach; however, 48 hours alternating between several antacids had not improved how he felt.
He rubbed the area, for the tenth time that day, and again felt that small spongy spot within his viscera, instead of the hollow that should have been there.
He wondered how it could possibly have happened, as he was diligently practicing celibacy on Midgard—not that he had found anyone or anything remotely tempting him toward pleasures of the flesh in this realm. Yes, some of the letters sent to the Tower from women—and not a few men—who had completely forgiven his role in the Great Chitauri Invasion of New York City sounded on the surface interesting in their suggestions of what they would like to have him do to their bodies, but truth be told, they sort of creeped him out. (And in his defense, those requests still would have creeped him out those two years back. Maybe.)
He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushed through his wet hair with that special detangling comb Romanoff, with a withering glare, had given him after he had helped himself to hers a few too many times. He deftly finished styling it via both Midgardian “product” and magic, then shook his head, and sighed to himself. “By all the Gods of all the Realms, not again.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, everyone.” JARVIS’ voice suddenly spoke out in every occupied room of the Tower. “It is one-fifty-five in the afternoon. May I remind you that Loki has called a Team Conference for two p.m. in the Level Three Conference Room. Your punctuality will be appreciated.”
Steve Rogers was, of course, already there and waiting. Loki had not given him a clue about the subject of the conference, nor had he mentioned needing any services or amenities taken care of. Most of the other Avengers at least arranged for coffee and maybe some cookies or cupcakes, or a bowl of fruit if one of the team was feeling fat that week (usually Bruce; never Natasha). Maybe Steve should have set up some coffee himself, plus called one of Tony’s caterers to send over a tray of, well, croissants or chocolates or fondue or something.
His lips compressed as he reminded himself that the job description for Leader of the Avengers did not include a bullet point for “Ensure appropriate refreshments are available when team is gathered.” Instead, he took a seat, not at the formal conference table but settling himself on the arm of the couch against the near wall. Maybe he should have pulled the couch and the easy chairs into a group circle….?
Everyone had managed to be on-site today, as well. That almost never happened unless it was Director Fury demanding it. They drifted into the room in those last few minutes before the start time: Thor first, who shrugged an eloquent “I dunno either” in response to Steve’s questioning glance; Bruce with Clint, and they were laughing, which was always a good sign; Natasha, her hair severely pulled back and wearing workout clothes that were dripping wet, which was not always a good sign; and then finally, a minute before, Tony, smelling like his engineering lab walked through the door with him.
They were all staring at Steve, like this was his fault, like they always did with anything to do with Loki since he was the only one Loki really got along with. He cleared his throat. “Everyone sit where you want, I guess. Loki didn’t provide an, um, agenda or anything, so… your guess is as good as mine what this is about.” Without too much consideration, everyone plunked into the easy chairs or onto the couch, slouching as disrespectfully as possible – Tony even propped up his feet on one of the rigid conference chairs—and looked expectantly at the door.
Loki entered the Conference Room at exactly 1:59:55, used those five seconds to look over everyone—not a hint of eye contact, just a headcount—then perversely placed himself at the head of the formal conference table, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to read.
“I, Loki—” he paused where he should have stated a last name, then started over. “I, Loki, in cooperation with the Agreement between myself as Temporary Contract Worker to SHIELD and the Avengers Initiative in the Specialty Field of Magic As It Correlates With Science and Technology, have convened a Team Conference as required by Article 12, Covenant 16 of the aforementioned Agreement—”
“Get on with it, Loki,” Tony interrupted. There was a soldering iron in his hand, its tip still smoldering; that explained the smell of zinc and ozone around him. “Do we really need another world-conquering speech?”
Steve really wished he had brewed that pot of coffee.
Loki—as usual—ignored him. “—requiring that any Team Member experiencing a change in personal physical status call a Conference in which to announce said change in status to the Team.”
He looked away from the paper then, to one wall, to the opposite wall, then up at the ceiling, before he dragged his eyes back, this time at least looking in the direction of the Avengers if not—still—meeting their eyes.
Loki’s voice pitched to a low whisper, one that commanded full attention, but Steve didn’t get the impression that it was manipulative; no, it was more like the only way Loki could get the words out at all. “In that manner, I wish to announce that I am with child. Neither the duration nor the outcome of my… pregnancy is known to me, as this was not a planned event.” He cleared his throat, steadying himself, and went on in a marginally louder tone. “In cooperation with the terms of my contract, I will schedule additional conferences with this Team in order to update whenever necessary. That is all.”
When Thor, wide-eyed, tried to speak—ha-ha, Uncle Thor, Steve’s brain helpfully provided him with the familial relationship–Loki’s stance went taut, and suddenly he seemed to loom, thrusting out one hand and instantly turning eerie and intimidating, in a Stuttgart-kind-of-way.
“I wish not to speak further of this at this time.” He spun on his heels—all he was missing was the cyclonic swirl of a greatcoat around his legs—and disappeared so quickly that Steve had to wonder if the last bit of the departure had been accomplished by teleportation.
Silence in the room, for a long while the whirr of the clean green energy system powering the Tower the only sound.
“Well,” Tony finally coughed uncomfortably, “I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that,” and that set everyone off in a most amazing chorus of swear words coupled with stunned expressions of disbelief and adamant headshaking. “How do you even…?”
Steve really wished he had set out a big bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
***
“Brother.”
Loki, annoyed at being interrupted—and hadn’t Thor agreed to keep out of Loki’s Authorized Projects and Design Room, anyway?—barely spared him a glance over his shoulder before continuing with his project. Fabric manipulation was not his forte, but what was the point of life but to learn? (Well, and to conquer other realms of course, but that presently was out of the question, impending maternity or not.)
“I am busy,” he responded coolly. “Please speak with me another time.”
“But… brother. Loki.” Thor’s voice was oddly intense. “How did you come to be—it has been centuries since the last time, and then you knew how and when… but this?”
Loki swiveled his work chair around. The expression on Thor’s face matched his voice; and Loki wondered as he did multiple times daily not how Thor still managed to care, but how much. “You think you are surprised?” he snapped. “Imagine my state of mind when I realized that despite every reasonable effort upon this world, I was carrying—somehow—yet another youngling. It was, needless to say, disconcerting.” He turned his attention back to the length of fabric he worked with and did his best to tune Thor out, concentrating instead on the delicate pattern of tiny golden stitches he worked into its surface with a needle and fine thread.
Yet Thor remained where he was, practically radiating concern, and Loki was ready to snap at him again, this time to begone, or somesuch other strong verb designed to send him packing. But to his surprise one of his brother’s large hands settled with an atypical gentleness on his shoulder and gave him what was no doubt meant to be a reassuring squeeze, if it hadn’t nearly bent his collarbone.
“Were you…” and Thor’s low voice went ragged at the inquiry, “taken advantage of, brother? Violated, and you wish no one to know?”
“’Violated’”? Just a little part of Loki’s self-control frayed, and he let slip a near-manic giggle. “’Taken advantage of?’ What think you of me?” He tried to push away his brother’s hand, but Thor’s grasp remained steadfast and supportive.
At such constancy, Loki could only tip his head back and allow himself to meet his brother’s intense gaze. “As if anyone could, Thor,” he said steadily. “As if anyone might even try. They would be filleted—and that is if I were feeling kindly disposed that day--before they laid one hand on my… well,” and he shook his head with disbelief at all of it, “wherever they were planning to enter in order to impregnate me.”
Thor’s grip relaxed, relief flooding those sincere blue eyes, and Loki took advantage of the moment to—at least not altogether rudely--finally shove Thor’s hand away. His brother barely seemed to notice the anti-fraternal gesture. “So you truly do not know how you came by this condition, Loki?”
“I wish I did.” Loki dismissed him then by turning back to his work table. He had to search for his needle, and feared it had fallen to the floor and he would only find it two days later by burying it in a toe. But finally he caught the glint of silver attached to gold and he took it up again, continuing his delicate stitchery. The motif on the dark fabric was coming along quite well, he thought with a contemplative nod.
Yet Thor was still there, mercy upon them both, in no mood to be dissuaded by half-answers, and still full of his own questions. “Are you certain that you are with child? Perhaps…” Thor took a deep breath as if he feared broaching the subject. “It couldn’t be a Midgardian illness that mimics the state of maternity in one of your… lineage, could it?”
Loki smiled wryly and shook his head. “Oh, I am very certain, Thor.” And his hand rubbed again at the spot below his breastbone, harder today, and larger. He could feel… life in there now, nascent and fluttering like a flame teased by a breeze, still so very fragile, its survival yet unsure.
But he was equally certain that he would do anything to guard that which grew within him.
Loki focused closely on his fabric, on the proper working of the needle and how it carried the thread that wove his spell of protection; and he suddenly—for that moment only—did not mind Thor’s presence. “All will be well,” he said quietly, confirming the pulse within him. “For despite my circumstances, I too am well, and you needn’t worry. In fact,” and he loosed a hand from the fabric to make a grand gesture, a royal fiat, “I command you not to worry. Now be on your way. Please,” he remembered to add, even as his mouth twisted a bit on the word.
And at last a smile blossomed on Thor’s face, all sunlight and gold, and he loosed a hearty laugh as he finally headed for the door. “Ah, brother—it will be grand to be an uncle to one of your children again.”
* * *
Steve consulted his notebook yet again before he continued with the difficult one-on-one change-of-status conversation he was having with Loki. “Well, of course, effective immediately we’ll take you off the battle roster—”
“--as if you let me fight at all,” Loki spat an interruption, “unless the threat is too great for the six mighty Avengers, and you need a force from Outside to step in and assist, and still SHIELD will not let JARVIS unlock more than thirty percent of my magic at any time no matter what circumstance—”
So that incident with Whirlwind a month back was still grating on him, even though Steve personally felt that even if they’d had all of Loki’s formidable magic available, they still would nearly have had their backsides handed to them if Bruce hadn’t finally shown up at the penultimate moment and “suited up” to save them all to fight another day. Plus, it being Loki’s turn to be heaved through a plate-glass window by one of the bad guys—and there being nothing he could do about it, lightly armed as he was—probably had a lot to do with how the offense lingered. Instead, Steve answered patiently, “You can appeal that again in three more months, Loki. And that’s not what this conversation is about.”
Loki set his mouth. Steve knew he was displeased with his circumstances, but that was an everyday thing and everyone was used to Loki going off about the unfairness of his imprisonment and servitude, but there was something more to it this time.
Loki’s hand drifted from where it clenched the arm of the couch, to rest high across his belly; and in another moment, he had started absently massaging the area. Although since his surprise announcement two days before he had not said another public word to anyone about his impending bundle of joy, from his body language alone it was obvious to everyone exactly where he was “carrying.”
Steve leaned in a little. “You feel okay today?”
“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” Loki bit out, his hand falling self-consciously to his lap. “You would think me another weak and simpering Midgardian wench, incapable of doing more than lying upon her couch throughout her confinement.”
“Hey,” Steve said easily, “Midgardian wenches weren’t like that even in my day.” He remembered seeing newsreel images of women with more belly than they should have had, daring to climb ladders and sink rivets into the warplanes people like him would soon pilot. Not to mention all the mothers-to-be he personally saw bringing their contributions to the scrap metal drives, selling bonds, and tilling their Victory Gardens. “What books have you been reading? ‘Gone with the Wind’, maybe?”
Loki snorted and looked away, long fingers twitching nervously. Oh-so-casually, he threaded those fingers together, then, equally-casually, rested those laced hands on his abdomen where they began a slow creep upward.
Steve decided, kindly, not to notice, and went on. “I see you’ve skipped your Starbucks these past couple of days—”
“Are we still not done?” Loki shifted in a way that Steve recognized, one that said, “I am dangerously close to reaching my limit with all of this”—and “dangerously” was the appropriate adjective for the circumstances.
Steve held his ground. “No, and I’m sorry, but SHIELD requires an initial field health assessment when any of its personnel reports a pregnancy.” Steve felt himself flush, not from embarrassment so much as the absurdity of having to conduct this conversation. “I’m trying to make this easy on both of us, okay? So, do you have concerns about the health of the baby?”
“I have concerns about everything relating to ‘the baby.’” Loki’s voice rose. “I do not know its form yet. Is it human? Jotun? Bound to my current biological form and thus Aesir? What does the unknown father bring to this? I know nothing, so I must act as if everything I do, everything I ingest is a potential threat. I read a pregnancy blog—” and now, amazingly, it was Loki’s turn to flush, right to the tips of his ears, and Steve thought that was one of the funniest things he had ever seen and had to fake a cough into his hand to mask his laugh—“where I found that caffeine could cause harm to a growing fetus, thus I made a decision to abstain until I have… delivered.”
“No wonder you’re so cranky.” Steve gently cuffed him on the biceps, hoping that would not earn him some sort of punishment in return. Loki, when miffed, could deal out some very effective short-term curses and spells that were treble whatever offense he felt had suffered. Fortunately, most times, Loki seemed to feel on the generous side when it came to Steve, so he was unharmed, so long as darkly angry stares didn’t really kill.
“So,” he went on, after consulting the hasty scribbles in his notebook, “ I don’t know what to say about prenatal care—” and there went his face, going hot again, and Loki was staring unblinking at the far wall, hands pressed ever more tightly to his belly, guarding himself, “but SHIELD offers it if you request it. Is there anything you think you need?”
“No.”
“Prenatal vitamins?” Bruce had mentioned those to him. “Mineral water? Herbal teas? Um, stretch mark creams?” Steve had stumbled across those items in his research—probably, may the Good Lord help him, from the same pregnancy blog Loki had read. “Anything like that?”
Loki stilled, and Steve swore he could see him going inside himself, as if he were literally listening to his body. Then Loki blinked, eyes overly green, and he was back. “Calcium supplements would be appreciated.”
“Calcium supplements,” Steve repeated, scribbling in his notebook. “You got ‘em.” But he was announcing it to Loki’s shadow as the God’s patience had finally departed and taken him with it.
Steve sighed as he took out the official form and began to complete it. This was going to be one heck of a report to write up and send to SHIELD.
***
Loki had found the past three weeks somewhat… taxing, and the start of the fourth week seemed to only promise him more of the same.
He awoke entirely unwilling to get out of bed, especially since his wake-up call had been a far too cheerful intercom announcement in Captain Rogers' "leadership voice" that something called the Breakfast Club was convening. Loki had no idea what that was, but he suspected it was one of the Teambuilding Moments he was supposed to participate in.
No.
Heartburn was scorching him all the way up to the back of his throat. He lifted his head enough to chug Mylanta straight from the bottle on his nightstand, then rubbed his eyes and let slip one final yawn.
Mistress Sleep was ever-fickle with him; more so now, he felt, despite his attempts to follow the healthiest lifestyle possible to benefit his unborn child. Though he had made the effort to retire timely the night before, he remained stubbornly awake long after his head had hit the pillows; thus he surrendered and made his way to his Project Room, where he worked on Stark's latest assignment: the redesign and implementation of a circuit board both so complex and so miniaturized that not even Stark Industries' most precisely-operated automatons could accurately craft it. But where technology might fail, magic might instead prevail; and Loki was pretty sure he had, as Stark would have said, "nailed it."
Which was why Loki had signed his name on the circuit board in script so infinitesimal that one would be hard-pressed to detect it by anything short of an electron microscope.
And of course after that he had dozed off, still at his work desk with chin propped on one hand, to finally startle awake when he almost fell headfirst into the monitor and its execrable SHIELD screen saver which Stark had locked in place with code Loki had yet to crack. He slammed the power off, and only then had he finally rolled into bed and fallen into real sleep. And of course, it didn't seem like he'd been asleep for more than an hour or two when the intercom had made its valiant attempt to call him to breakfast.
Plus, now he had a fiercely stiff neck, not to mention tense shoulder muscles, to show for all his work.
Loki finally sat up, peeling back the corner of the black-out curtains to check the time of day, and winced. There was far too much sun greeting him--it must be as late as 9:00, perhaps even 10 a.m. A goodly portion of his day was wasted already.
He swayed when he got to his feet, and the world turned a little dark around the edges, so he had to sit back down. Oh, the indignity. It was so hard to eat with the at-best-sour stomach, not to mention a new stiffness in his ribs, as if his body meant to protect the child he was carrying. He did not question it as much as accept it, knowing that his current physical form must have required substantial internal changes to allow him to harbor life.
He counted back and realized it could have been as long as three days since he'd had a true meal. So that did mean a visit to the kitchen was necessary; and unfortunately, his food was in the cupboard and refrigerator in the kitchen on Level 3. So it did seem he'd be participating in the Breakfast Club after all.
He showered--the heat would certainly aid his stiff and aching body—and, as had become his daily custom, he slid a soapy hand over what he could only regard as a womb, examining with both physical and spiritual touch. All was well within: despite any potentially worrisome signs to the contrary, he was healthy in his maternity, and the life inside was pulsing with exuberance—the intense green of new, growing grass, the tangy scent of an incoming tide.
He wasn't quite as sore when he got out of the shower, but he was still listless and light-headed. He managed to towel his hair to an acceptable level of "dry", found a long-sleeve oversized black t-shirt to bury himself in, and pulled his sleep pants back on. That, with slippers, was about as good as it was going to get today.
* * *
Loki’s steel-cut oats were almost fully cooked, and he was stirring some honey and golden raisins into the mess in the pot, before anyone even noticed that he was in the kitchen. Which had been fine with him, to stand as if invisible while the rest of them carried on with their so-called Breakfast Club.
These are the noisiest humans on Midgard. Could my penance not have been paid in a more tranquil venue?
Of course it was Captain Rogers who would finally spot his presence amidst all the warm fuzzies of false comradeship. At least he did not broadcast it to the team; instead, smiling, he simply made his way to Loki’s side, coffee cup in one hand, and the other holding out a crystal glass filled with some mysterious, slightly cloudy liquid.
“G’ morning.” Rogers paused to take a swallow from his steaming cup while Loki, somewhat suspicious, accepted the offered glass. “Apple cider,” Rogers clarified at Loki’s interrogative glance.
He made a show of sniffing it, then raised one brow. “Organic?”
“From upstate New York,” Rogers nodded. “Certified and orchard-fresh.”
“Then, I thank you kindly for the sustenance.” He allowed himself a sip, found it more than palatable (even close to Asgardian standards, though he would freeze his tongue off before ever admitting anything so positive about inferior Midgard cuisine), and then drained the glass in one long, cool, soothing swallow. “So. What is…?” Loki waved his stirring spoon in the general direction of the party going on around a long table set near the reflective not-windows on the Conference Level.
“Oh, the ‘Breakfast Club.’ Rogers looked a little embarrassed. “Director Fury got on me because I was letting too much time go by between Team Meals – they’re supposed to be weekly, but we haven’t managed one since Clint and Thor made us those tacos about a month ago.”
No wonder they were so odious. Even the memory alone could apparently still make Loki queasy, and he was not entirely successful at stifling a reflexive gag.
Rogers regarded him curiously for a moment, but then went on. “So, Tony called his caterer for me and we set things up for this morning so I’d be off the hook.”
“Would that it were that easy for others of us to be off Fury’s ‘hook’.” Loki tested his oatmeal one last time—perfect—spooned himself a serving, and padded to the far side of the kitchen table to eat his meal in peace.
Rogers made as if to follow him, but then shrugged, turned on his heel and went back to the busy catering table.
Loki’s peace lasted not even a minute. “Brother!” Thor, carrying two laden buffet plates almost overflowing with food, thumped down beside him. “Excellent—you have joined us for the feast! What Tony Stark has set for us is called an ‘omelet bar.’ You must try some!” He speared a chunk of some unrecognizable foodstuff onto his fork and held it out as an offering. “Eggs, dozens of eggs, cooked and then filled with anything you may ask for from this world! Would you like some with avocado, goat cheese, and Rainier cherries?”
“No.” Loki wrinkled his nose at the stomach-churning smells coming from not just from Thor’s plates, but from the catering table itself, all grease and cooking batter and inferior-quality smoked meats. He put his hand to his mouth, gagging again, and his throat suddenly burned all the way down to his stomach.
“I love this omelet,” Thor rhapsodized, heartily chewing with his mouth open. Loki, feeling petty, started to invoke one of Frigga’s lessons about table manners, reaching to smack Thor’s hand as the Queen had done so many times during courtly banquets when they were yet young.
But then there was a strange sudden pressure in his head, enough to make his ears hurt, and it left a headache behind it. He changed courses and instead he spanned his forehead with one hand, rubbing at his temples with his thumb and index finger. It didn’t help much.
Thor was rambling on--“Tony Stark must keep a flock of the finest hens to produce such eggs!”—but then his tone suddenly changed. “Brother? Are you well?”
“I would be fine,” he snapped, even though he suddenly felt quite far from “fine”, “if only everyone left me to my own business… brother.”
Thor looked stung for only a moment, then took Loki at his word—ah, Thor, from my most to my least significant exchanges with you, you still believe whatever I say--and went back to his meal. Loki pushed his own unfinished oatmeal away; even though he was still hungry, he knew he could not force down another bite—not the way his belly was suddenly hurting.
Thor left him shortly for even more food. Loki weighed whether he should return to his suite… or perhaps just sit there a while, lest he become too ill during the transit. He closed his eyes and tried to settle himself, counting out slow, deep breaths. He thought he felt something below his heart flutter, but sitting here amidst all the sound and the smells and the light made deep focus on the odd sensation impossible.
Conversations drifted distractingly around him. “More mimosas, anybody?” Stark, sounding buoyant and generous. “Who wants another? Pepper, c’mon, live a little.”
Ms. Potts, then, discouraging him. “Tony, it’s a work day for some of us.” Glassware clinked against a bottle still half-full, and even without eyes upon him, Loki could sense Stark’s pout as the sparkling wine was returned to the table.
“I’ll take that off your hands.” Barton spoke up, and Loki gritted his teeth upon hearing that voice. “I’m off-duty today—”
“Unless the end of the world changes your plans--” Banner reminded, and Loki’s clenched teeth began a subtle grind—“as has been known to happen.”
“Hey, hey, we’re all friends here, at least this morning, right, and here in my Tower eating the wonderful food I continue to make available to all of you?” Damn the champagne sparkle in Stark’s voice and his obsequious tone in reminding everyone how they should be beholden to him—
Loki startled, eyes flying open when Captain Rogers spoke almost right in his ear; somehow he had not noticed his approach. “Loki, there’s an extra Belgian waffle if you want it—”
And something inside Loki suddenly seem to shift, and press upward, and it forced a strange, loud, embarrassing hiccup from him.
Rogers definitely noticed that. “Need some water?” he offered sympathetically.
And of course in the next moment every conversation suddenly, almost magically tapered off, the better to allow another loud hiccup to actually echo throughout the room. He didn’t have to meet even one eye to know that the Avengers were all staring at him as though he were crawling out of a fresh impact hole in Stark Tower’s custom-laid sustainable carbonized bamboo flooring.
“Loki?” Rogers was repeating his name. “You don’t look so good. Are you all right?
“Something’s happening,” he managed, and he brought a hand to below his breastbone, where he felt the womb rippling right under the skin beneath his fingers.
I am an idiot—I have been laboring and had not the least notion of it.
The next hiccup somehow closed his throat and locked out his breath. A quick spasm—gasp for air--and another long upward p-r-e-s-s rolled along his insides. His lips went numb as, somewhere along whatever comprised the birthing conduit, some vital nerve was compressed.
He heard the rapid clack of heels across the floor, and Romanoff was at his side, elbowing Rogers aside. “Loki!” she shouted commandingly in his ear. “Can you talk?”
He couldn’t at that moment, shook his head—no, back away, all is under control--but too late he realized how she would read his gesture. Indeed, Romanoff immediately flexed her arms and stepped behind him, misinterpreting his condition to the others. “He can’t speak and that means he’s choking on something. The Heimlich—he needs—”
He slouched over in his chair to protecting the fragility inside him, making a rigid cage of his arms about his torso to block her efforts to “help” him, and frantically shaking his head. You will break—you will break my child—
And then Thor physically knocked her backward, away from Loki—safe—and shouted, “Leave him be! Can you not tell what’s happening?”
“No, actually,” came Stark again, “I can’t, but I’m a little afraid of what it might be. Guys, remember that night we all watched ‘Alien’ together?
“Shut up,” Ms. Potts snapped, and Stark, shockingly, did.
And now that which had grown within him was drawn up from his womb by an odd reversal of peristalsis, and he isolated something hard and inflexible working its way up his throat. The pressure would ease for a few seconds and he would find the space to breathe, but then the thing was on the move again, more rapidly. And now he splayed his hand over the front of his neck, where he could feel his skin distend, and the muscles in his throat struggle to bring forth his progeny.
Then there was a sudden release, and something odd and smooth rolled into his mouth. He hiccupped once more, eerily delicate this time, put his hand to his lips to catch it—
--and there on his palm rested an egg, white shell streaked with mucus and a little bit of blood, slightly more than half the size of the hens’ bounty everyone had been enjoying just ten minutes before.
“Whoa…” He dimly heard Barton murmuring, “Nice trick. Wanna know how he did—”
“Shut up,” Romanoff replied, and Loki wondered if he had gone mad because he would swear he felt her quickly pet his hair with a hand far too gentle for an assassin’s.
Rogers took the seat at his side and Loki managed to turn his head to look into blue eyes that, all things considered, were startlingly calm; had Loki a mirror to gaze into at that moment, he doubted that his would look nearly so composed. “Loki, what can I do? What do you need?”
He began to ask for water, then…“There seems to be… another,” he managed breathlessly just as his throat began to tighten and the muscles start working again.
It took longer this time, and once his breath seized long enough that his fingernails turned nearly Jotun-blue before the worst of the spasms released and allowed his air. He suddenly realized that the strong steady hand on his shoulder was Thor’s, and Ms. Potts and Romanoff were hovering nearby as well—though, for the life of him, he could not imagine why. He caught threads of their whispered conversation: “Should we tell him to push?” “I’m not sure--maybe it would work better if he kind of tried to vomit everything up?” “How do I know, I’ve never—” “No one has ever--”
One last hiccup—so mild for all the effort he had expended in birth--and then the first egg’s twin rested beside it in his palm, and he stared at both in awe.
My… children.
Two of them. He had no idea he would be so blessed.
He heard Stark’s voice, soft and somewhat pinched, giving instructions across the room. “Um, I think you can close up the omelet bar now. We’re done here today. And maybe forever.”
And then Steve Rogers was bringing him the glass of cold water he so desperately wanted. “There’s a little blood and… stuff on your mouth and chin,” Rogers added, and without waiting for permission, wiped Loki’s face with a warm wet cloth.
Thor kissed him on the cheek before Loki could dodge away and pronounced solemnly, “Brother, on Asgard they will someday sing great songs of your courage and prowess in bringing these new lives into the unenlightened world of Midgard.”
Sudden exhaustion made the present begin to fade in and out. Loki still found the power to spin the most delicate magic around the eggs, first a shield to cushion them (and he breathed into the bubble of magic, so that the children within would know the scent and heat of their mother, first and foremost); then a spell of physical protection from the dangers of this and all other realms; and last, a shining web of golden light binding them to the palm of his left hand so that they may not leave his hold.
His last act before dozing off—right at the table, right in front of everyone, but he could not find it within himself to care in the least--was to gently slide that hand inside his shirt and cradle the eggs to his bare skin, not so much that he might keep them safe, but that he might delight in his children’s precious pulses against his heart.