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At the end of his second week on Sakaar, Loki wonders if he might die there.
He lays on his bed, given to him by the Grandmaster, and stares up at the red and gold ceiling, hands folded on his stomach. His head is pounding, a piercing pain behind his eyes, and Loki’s hands can’t stop shaking. The room swims every so often.
The colors remind him of Thor. Of his brother, who—last he saw—was speeding towards Asgard with their murderous sister hot on their heels. Loki doesn’t know if he’s alive or not.
Loki likes to think he is. Whatever his feelings towards his brother, he doesn’t exactly want him dead. Still, the way Hela had so easily crushed Thor’s hammer won’t leave his mind’s eye.
For all he knows, Thor is dead. Just like their father and mother.
So he drinks. He tells himself it’s because it would be suspicious not to, this deep in the Grandmaster’s inner circle, but Loki is the god of lies. That includes lying to himself.
It helps, a little. He doesn’t have to think about Thor, or their father, or Asgard or—
For a moment, he thinks about unveiling himself to Heimdall, calling back to the Bifrost. Just to see if Thor is okay.
But, no. There was only one of three options facing him if he did that. Option one was that Asgard was gone, and there was no chance to go back. The second option was that it was lost to Hela, and if he went back, at best he would be killed. The third option was that Asgard was safe, and Thor wouldn’t—
No. It was better to keep himself hidden.
(There was a fourth option, he reasoned, but the chances of Thor welcoming him back were slim to none. Even if he was, all it would inevitably lead to was destruction).
It was better, this way. Here on Sakaar, drowning in the drinks and the pleasure and the chaotic lawlessness of it. Waiting for the inevitable.
Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll be dead before the Mad Titan ever finds him.
Loki manages to last two weeks before he starts taking the drugs.
He thought he could get away with just drinking. His tolerance is fairly high—has to be, with Thor for a brother—and Loki manages to walk a fine line. Drunk enough to please the Grandmaster, but not enough to lose his facilities.
But the Grandmaster’s favor is fickle, and Loki aims to be in it for as long as he can. He can’t hold out much longer before it becomes suspicious.
“Here’s how you do it,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki tries not to flinch as the needle is poked into his arm. It reminds him a little too much of Sanctuary. But it was either that or snorting, and Loki doesn’t fancy the idea of the latter.
The drugs work quickly. Pleasure simmers through his veins and he feels lighter. All thoughts of Hela and Thor, of Asgard and Odin, of the Mad Titan and Sanctuary, fall away under a hazy cloud.
“There. That feels good, doesn’t it?” There’s purple bruising where the needle was inserted, and the Grandmaster’s fingers dance over it.
He’s still careful. Tries not to mix the drink and drugs, or take more than one substance at a time. He’s seen what could happen, the deadly consequences of mixing concoctions.
But that doesn’t always work.
The comedown is the worst part. Loki locks every door he can as he hides himself in the washroom, hunched over a dirty toilet and vomiting his guts out. His body shakes. His throat and nostrils burn from the drugs, the alcohol, the vomit.
Shaking, he leans back, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Light dances behind his eyes. There’s a hollow emptiness in his gut, and for a brief moment he thinks of going to the Grandmaster and asking for more, before he shoots that down.
(It’s a futile effort, of course)
“One last thing,” Loki says, looking over the papers spread in front of him.
It still didn’t feel real. Asgard, gone. For all of his history with the place, good and bad, Asgard was—for most of his very long life—home. Perhaps one with gilded fences and secrets, but home nonetheless.
Now, Asgard was nothing more than cosmic rubble. What’s left of their people crammed into a dingy scrap metal ship floating through space.
It’s been three days since then. Things were finally beginning to settle down—the census had been taken, families sorted into bedrooms, injuries dealt with.
“The ship did belong to an egomaniac despot of a leader. Whatever the use for it was, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were certain… contrabands on board.” Loki, frankly, didn’t wish to trust anything on this ship, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I propose we do a search and confiscate anything of dubious origin. While I trust people won’t meddle with such stuff, I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
His hands had started shaking an hour ago. A glamour helps cover it up, but Loki senses more than sees the look the Valkyrie shoots him as he speaks to his brother.
“Right,” Thor says, rubbing his forehead. Loki’s still not used to the eyepatch. Still not used to the fact his brother lost an eye. “What do you propose we do with anything we find?”
Loki shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I can just throw it into space.”
He tells himself it’s for that reason only. That it’s not because he only has a limited stash of stuff stolen from the Grandmaster sitting in his interdimensional pocket, a stash that almost certainly won’t last them to Midgard.
Maybe it’ll be a good thing, though. Ween him off instead of going cold.
The meeting concludes soon after that, and not a moment too soon. Loki needs- he needs-
“Loki, would you like to dine with us?” Thor’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder, and he stiffens for a moment before looking at his brother. “I figured we could all use something to eat”.
“No, thank you,” Loki replies, shaking his head, resisting the urge to yank himself away from his brother’s touch. “I’m not particularly hungry.”
That, at least, was true. He hasn’t felt hungry in days.
Thor frowns. “Are you sure? I haven’t seen you eat much at all the past few days.”
“That is what happens when you’re not hungry.” He brushes Thor’s hand off his shoulder, and resists the urge to rub at his forehead. “If it concerns you that much, we can meet for dinner tonight. For now, though, I wish to be alone.”
At least his brother understands that. “Aye, very well. I shall see you tonight, then?”
Loki dips his head. “Of course,” he says, before turning around and heading out of the makeshift meeting room. All the while, the Valkryie’s eyes burn into his back.
He doesn’t run to their shared room—that would be unbecoming of him. But he does walk quickly, itching to get there as soon as possible. As soon as he does, he locks the door behind him, followed by the bathroom door, and takes a seat on the metal edge of the tub.
Loki’s hands shake as he pulls out the needle and the fix. He thinks he should be concerned, at how easy the motion is now, but the cravings are—bad.
There’s a constant bruise in the crook of his elbow now. Loki stares at it for a moment, needle in hand, feeling a shocking bout of clarity.
This needs to stop, he thinks, breathing heavily in the small, cramped bathroom. Looking at it makes him feel a little sick. Like it or not, Loki is one of the only two royals left of Asgard and its people. A drug addled Prince isn’t exactly a good thing to have.
Another part of him argues that with things the way they are right now, he needs to be seen as strong, like his brother. Now would be the worst time to go through withdrawals. The drugs will, for a time, keep him going. Stimulate him. Isn’t that what the purpose of some of them are?
Before Loki can talk himself out of it, he braces himself and inserts the needle in a motion far too fluid. It stings, a little, but he’s used to it by this point.
Standing up, he cleans off the needle in the sink. The best thing to do would be to replace it every time, but to do so would be to dip into the limited stash of medical supplies the ship has.
Besides, he thinks, vanishing the needle away, it’s just him using it. It’s not like there’s any risk of contamination.
He keeps the tap running, cups the water in his hand and splashes it in his face. The icy shock of it is refreshing.
With him, Loki has four different drugs of varying doses. One that acts as a sedative, one as hallucinogens, two as stimulants. He vaguely remembers taking all of them, at least once, within the past week before Thor showed up on Sakaar. So, that’s at least four different drugs to wean himself off of for however long the doses last.
There’s one more, too, a small packet of ten cream-colored pills in a little bag tucked into his shoe. The thing Loki has come to learn on Sakaar is that drugs can be medicines—and vice versa. It all depends on the dosage.
One pill is the standard. Two, for those who have built up the resistance. Three is likely to land you in the healing word. Four is deadly. Five is lethal.
Ten, and Loki will, with any luck, be dead within a minute.
It’s a last resort. The motions to pull out a dagger and mime shoving it up his sternum are hard practiced, but if that fails, then the pills.
He doesn’t want to die anymore, he thinks. Not like he did on the Bifrost, anger and confusion and hurt swirling around his chest in some depressing concoction.
But, as long as the Mad Titan is out there, Loki doesn’t think he can truly live, either.
Whatever the future may hold, with the Tesseract buzzing in his pocket, he is not going back there. He’ll make sure of it.
The self-inflicted detox is… hard.
For all his faults, Thor at least knows when to leave Loki alone. When he needs his space. It makes it easier, both the dosing and the falling, sitting in cold storage for his head and sneaking a nap in their room and throwing his guts out in a dingy bathroom.
Unfortunately, the Valkyrie does not share that idea. Or, more likely, simply doesn’t care.
“You look like shit.”
She pops down next to him on the bench in the small, secluded room Loki had taken to eating his meals in. For as much as he abhors eating whatever swill the Grandmaster had in store on this ship, he knows food will go a long way to keeping his strength up. Sanctuary taught him that all too well.
At least his stomach is cooperating today, and not cramping like it was the day before.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Loki asks dryly, sprinkling pepper on his meat. He would’ve preferred salt, but the detox has the effect of making him extremely parched. Excess would do him no favors in that regard.
“It’s an observation,” the Valkyrie replies, cracking open some fizzling golden liquid. “Want a slug?”
Loki should not mix drugs with alcohol. But he knows the liquid inside, the bittersharp taste of it. It was one of the better ones, all things considered.
“Hit me.”
He realizes the trap for what it is too late. The Valkyrie does not share her alcohol.
She raises an eyebrow, calculating. “It’s not a good idea to mix alcohol and drugs.”
Loki curses internally. On the outside, he plays it cool. “Yes, I am aware. Are you sharing or not?”
The Valkriye doesn’t answer him. “I’ve seen what the people in the Grandmaster’s inner circle do. I’ve also seen what happens when they’re suddenly not in that circle anymore.” She takes a long, long drink, draining half the bottle in one go.
Loki feels his eye twitch. If he were of better mind, he might think she was worried about him. But the last hit is still running through his veins, making everything seem sharper, more piercing.
“If you have something to say, either come out and say it or leave me to eat in peace.” He stabs at his meat with his fork, tearing into it with his teeth.
“It’s okay to admit that Sakaar fucked you up,” she replies. “I’ve seen it happen to a lot of people.”
“I would admit that if, in fact, Sakaar had done that,” Loki replies easily, resting his elbow on the table. His vision swims momentarily. “If anything, I should be saying the same to you. Best to leave some of the Grandmaster’s alcohol stores for trade.”
“I know how to handle myself,” the Valkyrie responds, leaning back in her chair. “And I made a point of never touching the dangerous stuff while I was on Sakaar.”
Loki rolls his eyes, spinning his fork between his fingers. “I never touched anything dangerous. Do I seem like the type of person to let substances control me?”
The Valkyrie narrows her eyes. “Listen, Lackey. I don’t care what you do on your off hours. But the minute it starts affecting your performance—affecting Thor—I’ll be on your ass so quick you won’t know what hit you.”
Loki’s hand stills, fingers clenching around the fork, poised to throw it. If he’s fast, he might be able to throw it in her eye.
It shakes slightly. “Is that a threat I’m hearing?”
“If it takes a threat to get you to take care of yourself, then yes. That’s a threat. I’m not going to have the prince keel over from drug withdrawal.”
His jaw clenches, but it only aggravates the pain in his head. “Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to worry about that, because everything is fine. Certainly nothing that my poor, dear, overworked brother needs to concern himself with.”
“I think it does, if it concerns the health of his brother.”
Something like panic spikes in Loki’s chest. Whatever else Thor thinks of him, reasonable or not, the thought of Thor finding out about this makes him break out in a cold sweat. It’d be the caper to nearly a decade of poor decisions Loki’s made.
Nausea rises in Loki’s throat, and he forces himself to swallow it down, pointing the fork at the Valkyrie. “You will not tell Thor anything, because there is no problem, and that’s an order.”
He and the Valkyrie stare at each other for a minute, neither one of them willing to back. Loki wonders, for a moment, if it’s going to come to blows and if he should cast a double and escape while he can. But eventually, the Valkyrie relents.
“Fine. But if this goes sideways, you’re the one explaining it, not me.” She takes her drink and leaves, slamming the door shut behind her.
Loki waits for a few minutes, before exhaling sharply between his teeth, chattering when a chill runs through him. His stomach roils, guts cramping, when he looks down at his food. What had once seemed bearable moments ago now taunts him.
Distantly, in the back of his mind, he thinks he needs another one.
At least, he thinks wryly, rushing to the bathroom, he managed to eat something today. At least Thor won’t be disappointed in me for that.
Loki measures his remaining doses carefully. The one good thing about the limited supply is that it practically forces a schedule. Smaller and smaller doses.
The bad thing is that it’s hard.
No amount of sleep or cold showers rid him of his headache, and the shakes in his hand makes it hard for him to write neatly. Every time he stands he forces down nausea and bile, and his heart rate feels much too quick.
“Loki? You’re still up?”
He looks up from the papers he’s scanning over, hunched into his little corner of his, Thor, Banner and the Valkyrie’s shared room, a dim witch light in his hand so he can see.
“Nightmare?” He heard Thor rustling about more than usual, but it must’ve not been that bad, as he hadn’t been shouting. They were fairly common, between the two of them.
Thor sits up in his bed, pressing the heel of his palm to his right eye socket. “Aye. Hela didn’t just stop at my eye.”
Loki purses his lips. Tries not to think about how far the knife could’ve gone. How easily he could’ve lost Thor.
“What are you doing up? You should be sleeping.”
He should. But although the world feels titled and slightly blurred at the edges, there’s enough of the last shot running through his veins to make sleep impossible.
“Nightmare, as well.” It was an easy enough lie. Another effect of the drugs. He doesn’t dream when he’s on the sedatives. That was going to be the hardest to drop.
The hallucinogenics are a different matter. Loki can’t even remember why he has them in the first place.
Thor grunts. The Valkyrie shifts in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
Loki shakes the pen—the ink isn’t coming out. “Not particularly.”
The bed creaks. Loki looks up to see Thor standing up, pulling his blanket around his shoulders. “I think I’m going to take a walk. Would you care to join me, brother?”
He looks down at the papers. The words swim and blur in front of his eyes. Squeezing his eyes shut, he hopes that maybe— but no.
“Sure. One second.”
Tidying up the papers, Loki slips on a pair of shoes, trying to ignore the wave of dizziness that hits him when he stands. He thinks he sees a smile on Thor’s face when he joins his brother at the door.
They don’t talk, which Loki is grateful for, the only sound being the whirr of the engines and their feet against the ship’s floor.
He remembers, when he was younger, racing to Thor’s bed after a nightmare, finding comfort in the steady presence of his big brother. Though his sleep has been mostly dreamless thanks to the drugs, for a moment, Loki allows himself to bathe in that familiar feeling. To hope that this can last for more than a moment. That, maybe, things between them can be good again.
It doesn’t last. Of course it doesn’t.
“Loki, are you alright? You’re shaking”
Loki pauses in his steps, looks down. Sure enough, his hands are trembling, teeth chattering.
Think, quick! He licks his lips and grabs the sides of his arms. “It’s cold here.”
In the witchlight, he can see his brother frowning, gaze fixed on him. “Is it? It doesn’t feel cold to me.”
“The ship gets colder at night, since everyone is asleep. Saves energy.” He tries not to think about how his biology should make it so he’s the last person getting cold.
Thor hums, and there’s a look on his face that suggests he doesn’t believe Loki. Which, given his track record, makes sense, but he can’t help the pang in his chest anyway.
But if Thor has any concerns, he says nothing, merely takes the blanket he was carrying with him and drapes it over Loki’s shoulders.
Loki looks down at it. “I thought you said you weren’t cold.”
“Yes, I did.”
Was there something deeper beneath that statement? Loki couldn’t tell. His brother was never one for obfuscating what he thought, unlike Loki himself. Or it could just mean he brought the blanket along for no reason at all.
Still, he says nothing else, merely pulls it tighter around his shoulders. It’s warm, and smells like Thor.
For a brief moment, Loki has the urge to tell Thor all of it. About Sanctuary, and the Tesseract and the drugs and everything in between.
He stops himself. It would only serve to widen the rift between them. And the thought of Thor finding out makes his chest pang once again.
A sudden cramp claims his stomach. Loki hisses, hand snaking over his stomach, tries vainly to hide it, but Thor immediately turns to him again.
“Loki? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he hisses out between gritted teeth. “Just a stomachache.”
Thor’s frown deepens. “Did you eat something bad?”
“Perhaps. Though I have the utmost respect for our chefs, I don’t exactly trust anything that was in the stores here when I stole it.”
“I can’t say I blame you, brother. Would you like to visit the healers? They may have something that could help.”
Loki shakes his head. “No, I only need-“ he stops himself before he finishes the rest of that sentence. I just need another shot. “I shall be alright. It is annoying, but it shall… pass.”
“Are you sure? Though supplies are tight, you assured me that we have a decent enough stock now.”
“Yes, Thor, I will be fine.” He breathes out slowly through his nose. “Let us just go back to the room. It will be better in the morning.”
Thor acquiesces, and they go back. His first thought is to head into the bathroom, but Thor will find that suspicious, so he crawls onto his cot, curling up under the blankets, shivering the entire time.
It’s not enough.
Logistically, Loki knows how they work. You take enough of a drug, you build up a resistance to it. You build up a resistance, the more you need for it to take effect.
He can feel it slipping, the effectiveness. It doesn’t last as long, and leaves him wrung out and weak with each use. When he goes too long without it, the cravings hit harder, more hostile, as though it was shaking Loki around as if he were in a soda can.
It’s so easy to miss it, is the thing. The way the drugs made everything a little numb around the edges, the dull pleasure simmering through his veins to drown out the grief. The way the sedatives made his sleep easy, freeing him from dreams of Sanctuary, of Thor throwing him off the Bifrost or bludgeoning him to death with Mjolnir.
He takes another shot before a meeting about rations, fuel supply and port stops that drags on. When it’s done, four hours later, Loki is just barely managing not to stab Thor, sitting next to him.
Before, with the hit of what the Grandmaster called Liftoff, it would last nearly twelve hours. Now it’s only a third of that. It’s left him irritable, shaky and exhausted.
When it finally concludes, Loki stands up, only barely managing to keep himself from toppling his chair over. His fingers dig into the side of the table. He vaguely wants to vomit, but swallows the bile down, closes his eyes and waits for the nausea to pass.
“Brother? Are you alright?”
Loki blinks, sees the room is emptied out except for him, Thor, and the Valkyrie looking at him. The former with concern, the latter with suspicion.
“Pardon?” He licks his lips, reaches for the water on the table.
“You look like you’re about to keel over, Lackey,” Valkyrie snaps pointedly. Loki narrows his eyes at her.
“Are you getting sick?”
Thor moves to place a hand on Loki’s forehead, and Loki flinches back, only to let out a small groan as it makes the room sway. He closes his eyes against the brief flash of hurt on his brother’s face.
“I’m-“ he starts to say I’m fine, before he hesitates. The best lies have some element of truth to them. “I’m… not sure. I… haven’t felt good all day.”
“Should we go visit the healers?” Thor asks as Loki takes a slow drink of his water. “They might have something to help.”
He cringes at the thought of that. Though a fair amount of healers were lost in the destruction of Asgard, the few that are around would recognize his symptoms easily.
“I’m fine, Thor,” Loki hisses back instinctively, before closing his eyes. “I- appreciate the concern, but we need not trouble them. I shall just go back to our room for a little bit.”
He’s not sure if Thor believes him or not, sending a long, silent look at him, but after a moment he hears a low rumble of agreement. “Very well.”
So he’s fooled Thor for now. Loki wonders how long it will last.
Loki manages to last another five days before it all goes to shit.
Even in the depths of space, marauders were always a problem one had to be worried about. In the past, it wouldn’t have mattered, since Asgard was home to strong, powerful warriors who could easily protect a ship.
Now, though, all the warriors are gone, slain by Hela’s hand. And a ship as big as theirs makes them an excellent target.
With the Valkyrie's help, they manage to drive the marauders away—but not before losing thirty people to their blades and guns, with dozens more wounded. The brittle tension that had settled over the ship finally breaks.
It’s not a full riot, but— people are scared. Lonely. Grieving. Thor makes a better king now than he would’ve back then, but everyone is hurt and grieving and that makes for poor decisions and choices.
It’s hours before things manage to settle down. Loki’s been up for two days and he hasn’t had a shot in twelve hours and his last stimulant wore off ages ago, leaving him wrung-out and miserable.
“Brother? Are you-“
Loki pretends not to hear Thor as he brushes past him, hurriedly making his way to their room, where he knows the bathroom door locks. Every step feels like the world is tilting out beneath him but he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other and walk.
His hands are shaking by the time he gets there, badly enough he drops the syringe on the floor. He fumbles around for a minute before picking it up.
Just a little bit, he thinks to himself, rolling up his sleeves with practiced motion. Just enough to sleep for a little bit.
It only occurs to Loki that, after he’s already shot up, that he grabbed the wrong vial. They’re slightly different in color, enough that if he were operating at full capacity he would’ve noticed, but he wasn’t, so he hadn’t. It only occurs after the fact that, as a result, he used way too much.
Shit, Loki thinks, sliding down the bathroom wall. I fucked up. The world spins in front of him, tilting and turning, a kaleidoscope of colors flashing in front of him and for a moment, he thinks he’s back on Sakaar, before he feels more than sees himself hit the ground.
Someone is banging on the door. Distantly, he thinks about telling whoever it is to shut up, but he finds he can’t quite get the words out before the world goes black.
“…something was wrong.”
“…fault… seen this…”
“…told us.”
People were talking. Loki could, distantly, recognize Thor and the Valkyrie’s voices, but they sound far too close for his comfort.
Loki groans, turning his face into the pillow beneath him. “Can you two shut up?” They make his head pound.
“Loki! You’re awake! Thank the Norns.”
A gentle hand shakes him, and with great reluctance, he peels open his eyes. Thor’s blurry, worried face comes into view above him.
“Thor?” He croaks, wincing at the voice crack. “What happened?”
Thor’s brows pinch. “The Valkyrie says you overdosed on some Sakaarian drug.”
Oh. Right. It comes back to him in pieces. Loki gulps, unsure if he should be more mortified or afraid.
“I-” Loki starts, searching for something to say in his defense, but the words fail to come.
After all, what can he say? Thor had caught him like- like this. Helpless to drugs, of all things. All he can hope for is that this won’t lower Thor’s opinion of him to rock bottom.
“I’m going to go get some water,” The Valkyrie says, excusing herself from the room. Loki notes there’s already a glass by the bed, but he doesn’t comment on it.
Thor doesn’t speak until the door shuts behind her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Loki licks his chapped, dry lips, resolutely avoiding his brother’s gaze. “There wasn’t anything you could do. And you had enough on your plate already.”
“You still should’ve told me. We- there had to have been something I could do. Even if it was just watching you.”
He shudders. “And have the people know the second prince is, along with being a noted liar and trickster and would-be conquer, a drug addict? I have my pride, Thor. Not to mention the message it would send to the people. Asgard needs leaders, and you and I are one of the only ones equipped for the job.”
Loki tries to sit up, but his head swims and Thor pushes him gently down onto the bed, reaching over for the glass of water.
It helps, a little, the water on the cooler side. Makes him feel more able to speak, at the very least. His stomach craps, but not enough for him to spit it out.
He lays back down, closing his eyes, mostly so he doesn’t have to see the anger on Thor’s face. Or worse, the disappointment.
“And it would’ve been worse if we hadn’t found you when we did. You’re lucky we were able to start pumping the drugs out before they really wrecked you.”
Thor’s hand finds Loki’s, squeezes it. When he speaks next, his voice is heavy, deep. “I’d much rather have a drug-addicted brother than a dead one, because at least then I would still have a brother.”
Sentimental fool, Loki thinks, without too much bitterness. Isn’t it strange, how he both hates and loves the ease on which that slips from his tongue? As though Loki is a brother worth having at all?
Loki licks his lips. “I- I’m sorry. I… thought I had it handled. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” He forces himself to open his eyes and meet his brother’s gaze.
There’s no pity there, or anger, or even disappointment. Just sadness. He isn’t sure if he prefers that or not.
“I know. And I know that things have not been perfect for us in recent years—perhaps longer,” Thor continues, stroking the back of Loki’s hand with his thumb. “But I have seen you die far too many times already, and now… you’re the only family I have left. I do not wish to lose you again.”
Loki exhales slowly through his nose. “And I, you.” The words come out easier than he thought they would.
“The healers say you’re out of the woods now. But if you’re struggling again, please—let me help, brother.” Thor’s hand squeezes his, his face crinkling in worry and anxiety. “Even if I have not been the most receptive in the past, I wish to change that. I don’t want something like this to happen again.”
Since he started posing as Odin, Loki has practiced sliding a dagger under his sternum more times than he can count. Since his second week on Sakaar, he’s had a small bag of deadly little pills in his boot. Since Asgard has been destroyed, he’s been keeping the Tesseract hidden in his pocket.
It’s not the time to speak of any of it. His head pounds, he’s both starving and nauseous and his hands still tremble. Loki does not wish to speak about it now—about the fall, about Sanctuary, about the Titan dogging his footsteps.
But Thor is there, giving him water to drink and holding his hand and just sitting there, steady and immovable and present. And Loki is tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Perhaps, just like in their youth, his big brother can keep him safe this time.