Where Shadows Lie (2/3)

[eyeus]

Title: Where Shadows Lie (2/3)
Fandom: Thor (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Pairing: Thor/Loki
Rating: NC-17
Words: 10510 (30120 total)
Summary: “We could call the enemy ‘Walkers’,” offers Bruce. “Like they do on The Walking Dead.”

Thor thinks they should be called Shamblers or Stumblers instead, but keeps his silence. His teammates might take offense to their iconic television show being referred to as The Stumbling Dead.

A/N: Zombie AU. Written to sate my desire for Thor/Loki-centric apocalyptic fiction. Title from Tolkien’s Ring verse.



~

Thor takes a seat next to Loki upon entering the common room, comforted by the way Loki brushes dry fingers over his. When they have all gathered, Tony waits until he has everyone’s attention, and says without preamble, “We’re out of food.”

“What,” says Steve. It is clear that he expresses this sentiment for everyone in the room.

“Well—” Tony says, backpedalling quickly, “I mean, we’re sort of half-living on canned food, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last us. My best guess, since the delivery trucks stopped coming, is that we have maybe a week’s worth left. But I know everyone metabolizes differently, so maybe not even that long.”

Thor notes that Tony very pointedly does not look in his and Loki’s direction. He shifts guiltily in his seat anyway; between him and Loki, they generally consume more than any Avenger’s weight in food.

“What do you suggest we do?” asks Bruce.

“We’re going to have to stock up. Food, water, medicine and whatever else we can find. The supermarkets are probably empty now; we’ll try our luck at the corner grocery stores. Hit up a pharmacy or two.”

“This isn’t going to be a walk in the park,” says Steve. “What are we going to do about those things that are attacking people?”

“Glad you asked,” Tony nods. He drags out a dusty, ancient-looking blackboard, and scrawls down several bullet points. “Before we set out, we have to know our enemy.”

“Are we seriously using a blackboard? That’s pretty old-school, if you ask me,” Clint notes. He leans back at a precarious angle on his chair, fiddling with a broken piece of chalk.

“Uh, yeah, we seriously are, because this is an old-school battle speech,” says Tony. “And we don’t want to be wasting any more electricity than we need to.”

Much of the power in the Avengers tower has been coming from generators Tony installed during the building of what was once Stark tower, in a fit of what Loki calls ‘mild paranoia’. All of it reroutes now to central rooms, such as the kitchen, common room, laboratory, and bedrooms.

Tony looks toward the other members of their team. “Any more wisecracks before we start? No? Didn’t think so.” He claps his hands together.

“Let’s begin here,” Tony says, gesturing toward the first bullet point. “This is what we know of the disease trajectory: it starts with a bite from one of the infected. Contagion then enters the bloodstream. Following sanguineous contamination are high fevers as the body struggles to adapt to the virus, before it gives up and results in complete organ failure, even liquefaction of vital organs, leading to death. Which we thought was the end of it, but no.” He pauses for a breath. “Because now we’ve got post-mortem awakening.”

Thor furrows his brow. Several of the words are incomprehensible to him, but Loki, who Thor is certain understands everything, looks troubled. He reaches out for Loki’s hand, but Loki is swifter, his fingers reaching Thor’s first for a quick, reassuring squeeze.

“As we’ve learned, there’s no reasoning with these things,” Tony continues. “When engaged with these creatures, our only options are stealth or combat. In terms of combat, tasers are absolutely useless. Flamethrowers don’t work. Bullets and knives, on the other hand, do. Turns out, the only thing that puts ‘em down and keeps ‘em down is a headshot of some sort.”

“So, you’re saying we need to destroy the brain,” Bruce notes. He adjusts his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

“Yep.” Tony nods at Bruce, before continuing. “All those zombie flicks you might’ve seen? They were right.” He looks around at the rest of them, before deflating a little. “Anyway, that’s what we’re up against,” Tony sighs. “Questions?”

“Do we have a name for them?” Steve asks. “A common enemy should have a name so we know what to refer to them by.”

“We could call them Walkers,” offers Bruce. “Like they do on The Walking Dead.”

Thor thinks if they must be called something, they should be called Shamblers or Stumblers, as those words provide a more apt description of their motion, but keeps his silence. His teammates might take offense to their iconic television show being referred to as The Stumbling Dead.

“Look,” Tony says, “I know there’s a stigma in every movie that says we can’t use the Z-word. That we’ve gotta use cutesy euphemisms, like Z’s, or zoms, or ‘newly turned’. But this is real life; let’s call a spade a spade. We’ll call them zombies. Or undead. Whatever.”

A ripple of dissent surges forth from the other Avengers; there is being a realist, and then there is being a realist, and no one quite wants to be the latter.

“We could call them draugar,” Loki says suddenly.

Thor looks to him in surprise; Loki has not spoken out so forthrightly like this for some time, usually content to hear the ideas of others first before cutting them down to size.

“Where we are from, the undead are referred to as draugr, or draugar, plural,” Loki explains. “It is rather a misappropriation of the word, but it will do.” He shrugs, seemingly nonchalant, but his fingers tighten around Thor’s, anxious.

Silence follows. No matter how long it has been, the Avengers are always surprised when Loki offers his opinion. It is a foolish thing, Thor thinks, because Loki speaks up when it matters, calms the ranks of their dissent. He is ever the voice of reason, even in the days of their company with Sif and the Warriors Three.

“I like it,” says Natasha. She says the word draugar herself, as if trying out the word, testing it.

“As do I,” Thor beams. The word is slightly inexact in describing their foes, but for their purposes, it will do.

Steve snorts a laugh. “Thor, you don’t count, you’ll always agree with—”

“How dare you,” Loki hisses. “My brother always counts.” He glares at the five of them in turn, daring them to defy him.

Another short silence falls. By now, though, the other Avengers have at least learned that although Loki ruffles feathers, he does have good ideas. They attribute his attitude to Loki simply being himself, and carry on.

“Actually, yeah,” Tony says now. “I like draugar better too.” He clasps his hands together, as if he has the final word on the matter. “Now that we’ve got a name, let’s divide into teams.”

~

The Avengers arrange themselves into teams of two and are assigned different areas of the city to scavenge at. Tony and Steve cover a section of upper Manhattan, while Clint and Natasha are to prowl the local area and search for supplies. Thor is paired with Loki, and together, they are assigned to lower Manhattan. Bruce is to stay behind and make sure the tower is not overrun in their absence, a sentry of sorts against intruding draugar.

Before each team sets out, Loki spells all their bags and rucksacks to have larger capacities than they appear to. Places a simple cloaking spell on each of their comrades, to shield them from sight.

“I knew it was good idea to have a magician on our team,” Tony pipes up, as his suit of armour blends into the environment. The only telltale sign of his presence is a slight, shimmering glow, not unlike gas rippling through the air.

Thor resists the urge to inform Tony that it was not all that long ago he had called Loki ‘batshit crazy’, and by the smirk that tugs at Loki’s lips, Thor can tell Loki remembers it as well.

When their preparations and cloaking spells are complete, Natasha and Clint leave by a little-used entrance used for delivery trucks. Tony and Steve start off on foot, as Tony’s suit of armour makes an inordinate amount of noise.

With the exception of her resonant hum as she picks up speed, Mjölnir is thankfully quiet, and Thor takes off with Loki into the sky.

They land quietly behind a pharmacy that is tucked into a strip mall, half of which has been reduced to rubble by air strikes. Several draugar mill about in front of the entrance, but for all their sluggishness, they have grown emaciated now, and will be all the more vicious for their hunger.

Thor eases the back door of the pharmacy open, careful to avoid creaking the hinges, and ushers Loki in ahead of him. When they are both inside, Loki motions for Thor to watch the exits, as he makes his way toward the supplies. Thor nods and sets himself just inside the back door, Mjölnir clenched in hand, at the ready. Watches the entrance where three draugar lurch blindly past the broken window.

There is not much in the way of food, but luckily the pharmacy doubles as a miniature convenience store of sorts. Thor watches as Loki winds his way past the broken refrigerators, careful to avoid half-dried puddles of melted ice cream and spilled drinks. He hurries past the rancid butter and spoiled milk, harvesting several boxes of snack cakes and cookie mix. Starts packing away bottles of juice, and bars of chocolate.

Though Thor notices Loki squirreling away sweet things first, he says nothing; Loki will pack what Tony has requested soon enough. His order of scavenging triggers a swell of fondness in Thor’s chest, with the way he moves from sweet drinks and confectionery to water and food, then to medicine.

It’s when Loki reaches for a bottle of pills on a low shelf that all Hel breaks loose; a blackened hand with strings of loose flesh hanging from it grabs Loki’s, and though Loki has the sense not to yelp or drop his rucksack in surprise, the draugr the hand belongs to lunges out, clawing the air in front of it blindly. Loki creates an instant illusion of himself, but the draugr continues its course toward the real Loki, honing in on him as if the real him is a beacon somehow. Even Loki’s spells to mask motion prove barely effective, and Thor realizes then that they are not driven by sight, but something more primal— sound, perhaps, or smell—at the same time he realizes, too late, that he had not cleared the pharmacy before Loki entered.

Loki scrambles toward the exit as Thor makes his way toward him, ready to fend off the draugr, but there is no longer just the one; the draugar milling about outside the store have been drawn by the sound of their brethren’s cry from inside—a hoarse, rattling bark, the sound repeated in groups of three—and lurch their way in, as fast as their broken, rotting limbs can drag them.

With his back pressed to Loki’s and Mjölnir at the ready, he and Loki fight as one unit, moving and circling in tandem. Mjölnir catches the draugar unaware, her uru head smashing open their skulls, and Thor’s arcing swings are augmented by Loki’s graceful dispersal of throwing knives and seiðr.

It is only when Thor breaks through the second wave of draugar, a new horde that has spilled into the pharmacy through the back alley entrance, that he realizes Loki is no longer at his back.

“Loki?’ Thor calls desperately. “Loki!”

“Quiet, you fool,” comes a strained voice from the floor, and the scenario is worse than Thor thought; there’s a draugr pinning Loki to the floor, bloodied jaws snapping in hunger in front of Loki’s face, ichor dripping from its chin in a long, black line that pools on Loki’s armor. When the bolts of seiðr Loki fires into its head do nothing, Loki conjures a dagger of ice into a being, struggling to pierce the draugr’s skull, but the angle is all wrong, and Loki cannot slide it home into the creature’s brain.

The snap of jaws too close to Thor’s head remind him of the onslaught he barely holds at bay, and he smashes Mjölnir into the lot of them, paying little mind to whether he leaves bodies or heads intact.

“Brother, please,” Loki says suddenly, Loki is begging, because the draugr above him is gaining on him, and in an instant that feels too long, too slow for Thor, he is there, Mjölnir swinging a wide arc into the side of the draugr’s head, obliterating its skull. His arm swings again and again, shattering bone and tearing through tendon, until blood flies at his face, because this thing, this abomination had almost taken Loki from him.

How dare it, how dare it think it had the right? Except these things could not think, the mindless creatures having long since lost their humanity—

“Thor.” Loki’s touch at the small of his back is gentle, a reassuring weight, despite the tremor in his hand. “Enough. The draugar here have been defeated. We hardly want to attract more of their attention.”

“Loki,” Thor breathes, wet and desperate, as he turns and clutches Loki’s shoulders, too tight, too worried. “Never—never leave my side again.” He pulls Loki close, burying his face into Loki’s hair and breathing him in, as if he can inhale hard enough to breathe Loki inside him and keep him safe. Ignores the blood, bone and brain stippling Loki’s skin like an abstract of broken flesh on pale canvas.

“We should—we should go,” Loki manages, but he’s starting to shake now, the barely noticeable tremor evolving into full-body shudders that have him clutching at Thor, at his cloak, Loki’s knees buckling beneath him. Thor tears the cloak from his shoulders to wrap around Loki, envelopes him in its warmth as he circles Loki with his arms.

He flies them back to the tower, careful to dull Mjölnir’s song with a cloth as they rise.

“Hey, how’d your scavenging mission go?” Tony asks, as they hurry into the tower.

“Take it,” Thor says to Tony, more sharply than he intends, as he thrusts the bag of goods into Tony’s hands. He must tend to his brother first.

They make their way to their floor, and as they head to the bedroom, Thor rubs Loki’s back, chafing at his skin through the leather and metal to warm him. Loki sits on the edge of the bed, shivering. He looks too small and vulnerable by half, and Thor is reminded of the little boy who was once no taller than Thor’s waist, terrified of thunderstorms and the dark.

“Loki,” Thor says hoarsely. He sits down next to Loki, tries to wrap an arm around his waist.

“I have no need of your help,” Loki hisses, batting Thor’s hand away. “You have done enough. And I—I could have handled that draugr on my own.”

There is a bitterness roiling in Loki’s mind, Thor knows. That he needed Thor’s help at all, that his body could not hide his fear and gave in to its basest reactions, of shaking and clinging to his older brother. When his fear is known and his weapons rendered useless, Loki fights and scratches and spits vitriol aimed to injure pride, and it often takes inordinate amounts of affection to bring him around again.

Thor is no stranger to Loki’s fits of anger and helplessness both. He lies down along the bed and opens his arms. “Come,” he says, beckoning Loki to fit into the shelter of his arms. “Lie down with me, Loki.”

Loki hesitates for a moment, before resting gingerly next to Thor. Thor lets his arms creep around Loki’s frame, then pulls him inward, enveloping Loki in a hug. Murmurs wordless nothings into his neck to soothe, and sprinkles his cheeks and nose and lips with kisses, soft.

“Look at you, so worried about the Jötunn foundling,” Loki sneers. “Odin would be ashamed to see you now.” Two years has not dampened his tongue from its quick barbs. Thor is certain a thousand more would not either, and though he has not the same skill with words to comfort and calm, this affection and physical closeness he can do. Even beings revered as gods need affection and warmth, and Thor finds Loki is no exception.

Although not even a god could withstand disembowelment, or being eaten alive by the hordes of Midgard’s draugar, even if they could survive infection. Thor shivers at the thought. All of Iðunn’s apples could not fix a body torn to shreds by greedy claws and gaping maws.

Oh.

“Loki,” Thor breathes, excited. He wants to share this thought with the others immediately, but this is something he would discuss with his brother, to solicit his opinion of first. “The apples!”

“What nonsense are you prattling on about now?” Loki asks.

“Iðunn’s apples!” Thor beams. “Could they not be used to cure this Midgardian infection? Perhaps a way could be found to distil the liquid essence of the apples, to make it safe for the humans to use, and—Loki?”

Loki is quiet and does not meet his eyes, which means only one thing: the thought has crossed Loki’s mind, and he had not seen fit to share it with Thor. Had waited until Thor had the epiphany on his own, and if not, would have kept his silence.

“Loki?” Thor says, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. “You thought of this before I did, didn’t you? Why did you not tell me?”

“I,” Loki tries. He shivers from within the makeshift blanket. Licks his lower lip, nervous. “Odin would not approve.”

Since when have you ever cared for Odin’s approval? lies on the tip of Thor’s tongue, before he banishes the thoughtless comment—too much of Loki’s life has been spent seeking their father’s approval, his regard, when all this time, he has had Thor’s. “We must try,” Thor replies, careful. “Loki, you know this. It is their only hope.”

“It is a foolish idea,” Loki snaps, clutching Thor’s cloak tight around his shoulders as he meets Thor’s eyes, furious. “Not only will it make the Midgardians near immortal, we risk giving away Asgard’s secret to longevity.” He gestures toward the main hall. “Their people already kill for the most trivial of things; what might they be driven to for something that is akin to immortality?”

“We can say the apples simply have curative properties. That their essence is a restorative,” Thor says, nodding. When Loki snorts at his naïveté, Thor sighs. “You said we could fix this, Loki. We must at least try. Especially if we can save Midgard’s population with this.”

Loki closes his eyes and breathes out slowly, ever his response when he knows Thor will not be dissuaded. “When will you leave for Asgard?”

Thor clasps his hands together behind Loki’s back, hitching him closer. “Tomorrow,” he says softly. “My attentions are needed elsewhere at the moment.”

“Oh?” Loki replies, his expression bordering on bored. Thor looks beyond that; he notices the tight lines at the corners of Loki’s eyes, the unhappy downturn of his mouth, all of which say I need you. Stay with me. Sentiments Loki cannot bring himself to voice, but is unable to school his features enough to hide.

He drops a reassuring kiss onto Loki’s hair, nuzzles into the softness of his neck. “Elsewhere,” Thor says, and besides the motion of pressing himself more fully against Loki, he shows no inclination of moving from the bed. “Right here.”

“Ah,” says Loki. And from the greedy clutch of fingers in Thor’s back, the slotting of hips and knees and toes into Thor’s space, Thor knows that he has done well; that Loki understands Thor’s first priority is him, and always will be.

Later, Loki draws him into the shower, his eyes suspiciously bright as he winds his arms tight about Thor’s neck. And when he kisses Thor beneath the scalding spray, like something half-starved as Thor slides deep within him, Thor knows he has done very well indeed.

~

“My friends,” Thor announces, when the rest of the Avengers have gathered for breakfast. “I must pay a visit to Asgard.”

They look askance at him, as if to say why now, their hollow-eyed stares betraying their fears of Thor abandoning them.

Thor makes his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “Have no fear,” he explains. “I shall return here as soon as I have sought my father’s counsel on this matter. He may yet have some insight on how to combat this calamity that has befallen us.”

“And Loki? Is he going with you?” Tony asks, mid-crunch on his dry cornflakes. Milk is a rare commodity now, and spoils far too easily.

“Someone has to stay here and make sure Thor has something to return to,” Loki drawls. “That is what you were wondering, was it not? ‘Insurance’, I think you would call it?”

“Loki,” Thor admonishes quietly. He nudges Loki’s knee with his, reproachful.

“Wow, okay,” Tony says, palms splayed out toward Loki in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t even think of that ‘til you brought it up. What I was thinking was that we could really use your help around here. Both yours and Thor’s. And it would suck to see you both leave at the same time for a little road trip home. Not that we’re begrudging you a trip home, but—”

“I think,” Bruce says, touching his glasses to push them higher on his face, “that what Tony means to say is that we like having you here. Not as insurance, not as leverage. Just…for being you.”

“Oh,” says Loki, quiet. He seems to have been struck speechless, a rare occurrence.

Thor beams at his teammates—he is relieved to have misread their expressions as well. He sneaks his palm onto Loki’s knee beneath the table, and smiles when Loki’s hand closes over his.

Later, when he and Loki have packed the provisions Thor will need for the journey home, Thor stops at the threshold from which he will fly with Mjölnir to a skyscraper far from the tower. He cups the back of Loki’s neck with his palm, memorizing his warmth, the softness of his milk-pale skin. Strokes the hollow of Loki’s throat with his thumb.

“Come back with me, brother,” Thor says.

It is as much invitation as he can give; he will not offer false promises of Loki’s acceptance back into Odin’s court, nor will he use their mother as a reason to guilt Loki into accompanying him. This is to be his decision alone.

Loki shakes his head. Swipes his tongue over his lower lip, a habit he has not grown out of, when he is conflicted, or tempted even, by something he cannot quite have. Thor remembers Loki doing it more often in his presence, before they became everything they are to each other now. “No, I…I would be,” Loki says haltingly, “of more use here at the tower. Stark and Banner may need my expertise on things.”

Thor thinks Loki simply needs more time before he sets foot in Asgard again, if ever, and he dearly hopes Loki will, someday. “Then this is farewell, for the present,” he says, and leans in to bid his goodbyes in kisses, pressed to Loki’s eyelids and cheeks.

“Nngh,” says Loki eloquently, when Thor kisses him long and thoroughly on the mouth, that he may remember the taste of Loki, and the sight of his lips, rose-red and kiss-swollen, for the time he must remain in Asgard. “Enough,” Loki says peevishly, after they while away long minutes exchanging kisses. He sets his hands on Thor’s chest to push him away, gentle. “Any longer, and your mortals will wonder why your journey took more time than it ought.”

Thor nods; there is logic in this, and time is indeed of the essence. He sneaks a last kiss to Loki’s brow, and stands at the edge of the Avengers tower roof, swinging Mjölnir with minor arcs of his wrist until he has built momentum enough to fling himself into the air after her.

It is nearly sunset when he makes his way to the rooftop of an abandoned building on the other side of the city. Thor has worked out that the draugar are drawn by sound, and he would die before risking the safety of Loki and his friends at the tower with the roar of the Bifrost.

“Heimdall? When you’re ready,” Thor tries, eyes turned toward the sky. His request is barely above a whisper; the bellowing of a god is not conducive to a stealth mission to his home world to bring back a cure. Especially not when the broken ground beneath is swarming with slow-moving draugar, ready to lurch into action at a moment’s notice.

There is a noticeable pause, a span of two heartbeats in which Thor’s chest fills with dread. But it seems Heimdall hears him all the same, and Thor dares a small, relieved laugh as the myriad pearlescent colors of the Bifrost surround him and hurtle him headlong toward Asgard.

~

“My prince,” Heimdall nods, as Thor steps into the Observatory. The Observatory looks as beautiful as ever, with its walls adorned by ornately carved golden dials and its vast window to the skies.

Thor inclines his head. “Heimdall. How fare my mother and father in my absence?”

Heimdall blinks, once. “The king continues to rule Asgard and keep the peace in the Realms, while the queen keeps to herself, weaving at her loom and tending her gardens.”

“And the Warriors Three?” Thor asks, hopeful. “Sif?”

“I have seen them along the borders of Alfheim, on a hunt. They are due back on the morrow.”

“Ah,” says Thor, feeling a keen sting of disappointment; he had hoped to recruit Sif and the Warriors Three to his cause on Midgard, for their insight and brute manpower both.

He takes his leave of Heimdall, and makes his way to the throne room, where he knows his father will be seated. Odin’s lack of surprise at Thor’s presence suggests he has seen the Midgardians’ plight from Hliðskjálf , and he makes no pretence at asking Thor if he is here to finally take over the throne.

“Father,” Thor nods respectfully, as he approaches the dais.

“Am I?” Odin asks drily. “I rather believe you think me an infinite vein of gold instead, to be mined when you have need of its riches. Is it not true that you only return to this realm when you wish to beg a boon of me?”

Thor feels something inside him curl up with guilt, but he stands his ground. “Father, the Midgardians, they suffer from a disease. One that turns them into shambling, mindless versions of themselves, bent only on consuming the flesh of the living. They need—”

“Silence,” Odin roars. “I know what you have come for, and I tell you this: the apples of Iðunn are not meant for human consumption.” He rises from his throne, drawing himself to his full height. As he does so, the base of Gungnir strikes the floor, lending weight to the Allfather’s words.

“Their whole race is under threat of extinction,” Thor argues. “The Midgardians perish even as we speak.” He softens his voice. “You once banished me for trying to destroy an entire realm. Standing by and doing nothing while the Midgardians under my protection perish would be tantamount to the same.”

“And do you speak on behalf of this realm for its mortals whose lives you so claim to cherish, or for the existence you have eked out there with Loki?” Odin says archly, lifting a brow.

Thor ignores Odin’s jibe at the life he and Loki have built for themselves; what they have is their own and will not be sullied by their father’s opinion. “I have comrades there,” Thor says instead. “Good people, who struggle against all that would bring them to ruin. Searching for scraps of hope even when few exist.”

Odin sighs, and his next words are weary, as much as they are thoughtful. “My son,” he says, kneading his temples. “You cannot fight everyone’s battles.”

“No,” Thor agrees, for he has long since learned that even with the strength of his brother and Mjölnir behind him, he cannot fix all the ills of the world. “But I would fight the ones that matter. I had hoped you would see that.”

Odin shakes his head and turns away, without gracing Thor with an answer.

Thor inhales once, slowly; he knows when his pleas fall on deaf ears, and turns from the dais, to see the one person who has always stood by him, who is a mother first, before a queen.

~

“Oh, Thor,” Frigga breathes, as she leaves her loom and its half-woven tapestry to rush toward Thor. “I have missed you so.”

“Mother,” laughs Thor, easily encircling her waist with his arms for a hug. He giggles as he suffers her too-worried embraces and kisses to his cheeks, though truth be told, it is not much suffering at all.

“And your brother?” Frigga asks, between the flurry of worried touches to his face and shoulders and hair. “Where is Loki?”

“Ah,” Thor tries, “he could not—did not—” He cannot find words to cushion the blow that Loki did not want to come. “Loki is safe,” he offers at last.

“I see,” Frigga says sadly. She lays her hands over Thor’s forearms, and he brings his hands up, instinctually, to hold hers in turn. “Thor, you must take care of your brother,” she says solemnly.

Thor thinks of fine tremors beneath too-pale skin, of fingers clenched fearfully tight in Thor’s cloak, and renews his resolve. “I swear it,” he tells Frigga.

She smiles, relieved. “Now then, let us speak of the nature of your visit.”

Thor relates the plight of the Midgardians. How the disease has devastated their population, and those that now survive live in constant fear of discovery or of becoming infected. He tells her of the fate of those who fall victim to the sickness, how they defy the laws of nature to rise once again, as draugar.

Frigga nods, troubled. “And you think Iðunn’s apples may cure this disease. Or protect against it.”

“I am not certain they will, but we must at try, at the least,” Thor says. He gives his mother a hopeful look.

“They will not be easy to procure,” Frigga replies, frowning. “Your father had the security on the orchards doubled before you arrived.”

“Oh,” says Thor, deflating. He has come so far, only to be thwarted by his own father’s machinations.

“But,” Frigga adds with a coy smile, as she lays a reassuring hand on Thor’s shoulder, “I think the guards will find that the queen of Asgard has her ways.”

She takes her leave of him then, an easy sway in her hips as she walks away, the confidence of one who knows they will have their way. Though her smile has dimmed a fraction when she returns, she presses a light bundle into his hands.

“I am truly sorry, Thor,” Frigga says, as Thor peeks into the blanket and counts two of Asgard’s apples, perfect and golden even without the sun’s radiance upon them. “This is all Iðunn could spare for your cause. Especially in light of Odin’s new decree for the apples.”

Thor frowns—that the act of taking Iðunn’s apples could be considered treason now is not something that sits well with him, but he does not have the time to challenge this fact at present. “Thank you, mother,” he says, bowing his head. He places the apples in a satchel Loki had spelled for the purpose of holding them. “I am grateful that we procured any at all.” He had expected to come away with none, especially after Odin’s earlier outburst.

“That is not the only gift I have for you,” Frigga says softly. She reaches nimble fingers into the folds of her dress, and brings forth two amulets, each a single metal disc bound by a thin, silver chain. “These are for you and Loki.”

Even without Loki’s natural affinity for seiðr, Thor can feel the hum of the amulets’ power, of the protective spells Frigga has woven within them. He lets his fingers skim the outer edges of the amulets, feeling the score of roughly carved runes.

“Thank you,” Thor says, “but what need have I for this? I do not fear the draugar; I only fear for Loki to be hurt by them.” He pointedly does not tell her about Loki’s dangerous encounter with them in the Midgardian pharmacy.

“If you fear for him, you must have strength enough to protect the both of you,” Frigga chides, gentle. “Though perhaps, you should give Loki more credit. Depend on your brother, Thor. A burden shared is a burden halved.”

Thor nods; there is logic in his mother’s words, and he would do well to apply them once he returns to Midgard.

Frigga draws out another, longer bundle from the bottom-most drawer of her vanity. “This,” she says, “is for Loki alone. Something of his own, for the days to come.” Thor accepts the neatly wrapped package, and from the heft of it, judges it to be a pair of knives. “His other set must be dull by now,” adds Frigga, “as I imagine fighting the draugar does not allow one the time to take one’s knives to whetstone.”

Thor matches her grin with one of his own. “I am sure Loki will appreciate your gift.”

“I have given you all that I have prepared,” Frigga says, after Thor finishes tucking away her gifts for safekeeping. “And I understand time is of the essence, but Thor, will you not stay the night?” She lays a palm, gentle, on his cheek, and oh how Thor does, just to bask in her tenderness and love, to enjoy the presence of his mother, whom he has not seen in so long.

He allows himself a moment to revel in Frigga’s touch, turning his cheek into the softness of her fingers. Inhales the warm scent of citrus and sage from the breezy fabric of her dress, memorizing it so he can bring their mother’s warmth home to Loki. Though silent, Frigga smiles, as if she knows what Thor is doing.

“The sooner I bring the apples to our healers on Midgard, the sooner they can work toward a cure,” Thor replies at last, regretful. He traces careful fingers over the outline of the apples in his satchel. “As such, I should return to my friends.” And Loki, he thinks. At the thought of him, Thor feels a heat suffuse his face, and tries to will away the thought of his brother. Of how his return might be welcomed, and—

Something of his thoughts must show in his expression, as Frigga laughs and pats his cheek. “Oh, Thor,” she laughs. “Your feelings for Loki are no secret. Nor are your worries and fears.” Frigga smiles. “Go to him. I am sure he worries the same for you.”

“Ah, but Mother?” Thor asks, and suddenly his voice sounds so much younger than it is. “When this misfortune on Midgard has been overcome, would you like to visit us? It does not have to be for long, but Loki would appreciate—Loki would like—”

Frigga smiles, the lines of her mouth and eyes alight with genuine pleasure. Thor does not miss the way her eyes flit, discreet, to her half-woven tapestry, of gold twined with green and crimson both, the delicate weave of her handwork a gift befitting kings.

“I should like nothing more,” she says, quiet. “Now go. The road ahead of you is long, and I am sure Loki will reprimand you if you tarry for longer than he intends.” His mother tips him a perceptive wink, and Thor laughs even as he blushes.

He’s grown used to the frankness Loki inherited from their mother, but Frigga’s still catches him off-guard from time to time.

~

Thor decides to try his luck before he leaves, sneaking into Iðunn’s orchards to steal some apples. He had been hoping for a bushel.

He manages to steal one, before receiving a bruised rib for his troubles.

~

Thor makes it all the way back to the Observatory before his advance is stilled by a pang of guilt; his visits to Asgard are few and far between, and this time he has come for little more than begging his parents’ assistance. He wonders if he should have taken up his mother’s offer of staying the night, as his chambers would be properly maintained, ready for his stay at any time. And it would be nice, to see the Warriors Three and Sif once more before he leaves. To hear Fandral’s complaints of Volstagg having eaten through a week of their hunt’s provisions in one sitting. For Hogun to impart his rare, but precious advice. To be subject to Sif’s surprisingly refreshing candidness.

But he has left Loki alone for far too long already, and he misses the barb of Loki’s dry wit. The warmth of his presence, which for long years Thor took for granted. The heat of his touch, fevered and passionate.

“Heimdall,” Thor nods in greeting. “How fare Loki and my friends on Midgard?” Perhaps if all is well in the middle realm, he can stay the night. Just long enough to enjoy his mother’s company and see his friends’ safe return from their hunt, and not a moment longer.

Heimdall turns from where he gazes out into the cosmos, standing sentinel for all of Asgard. “Loki has often hidden himself from my sight,” he replies. “But this time…” Heimdall pauses thoughtfully, then narrows his eyes. “This time, he cloaks yet others in the same shadows. I can see neither him nor your friends.”

Thor pales instantly, his hand tightening hard around the satchel, containing his hard-won prizes from Iðunn’s orchards, and possibly Midgard’s only hope for a cure. Sif and the Warriors Three will have to wait, and though his heart aches at the thought of not seeing them for another long while, it is nothing in the face of his overwhelming need and worry for Loki.

At this, he feels another sharp stab of guilt, that his first concern was for Loki and not his friends or Midgard, for whom he procures these apples.

“Heimdall,” Thor chokes out, “please, I must return to—I need to—” He stumbles over his words, unable to give voice to the worries that reverberate in his mind, of Is Loki safe, Is Loki all right, LokiLokiLoki.

With a knowing nod, Heimdall steps up to the dais and activates the Bifrost.

~

By the time Thor makes his way back to the Avengers tower, he discovers things have gone from bad to worse: draugar have begun to swarm, thick, around the lower levels of the tower, somehow sensing the presence of still-living beings.

Steve recruits him to the effort of barricading the lower levels and fortifying the glass with the furniture that they can spare, namely moveable desks, coffee tables, and heavy light fixtures. Meanwhile, Loki and the others monitor the perimeter, making sure that none of the draugar come close enough to shatter the thick glass, Loki with his seiðr and Tony and Clint with repulsor blasts and explosive arrows at the ready.

Tony always said that Stark Tower, as it was originally named, had been built to be the epitome of technological comfort, not a place for a remaining pocket of the human race to stage their last stand.

“Loki?” Thor whispers later, after he and Loki fall into bed fully-clothed, exhausted from their efforts. He has yet to bring the apples to Tony and Bruce, but he and his brother have been granted a short repose from their duties for now. “Loki.” Thor snuggles closer, looping his arms around Loki and reeling him in, until Loki’s back is pressed against Thor’s chest. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” Loki says irritably. He turns in Thor’s arms, and at Thor’s hurt expression, gentles his voice. “What is it?”

“I thought I might share with you the gifts mother graced us with, when I visited Asgard. Especially the one for you alone. But,” Thor says, with a sly curl of his lip, “if you are too tired, they can wait.”

Loki sits up instantly, the very picture of spryness and vitality. “No, not too tired at all.” His eyes gleam as Thor draws Frigga’s gifts from the hiding spot beneath their bed.

“You could at least try to feign a little indifference,” Thor huffs, laughing. Loki rolls his eyes and holds his hands out eagerly as Thor tips an amulet into his palms.

“Interesting,” Loki notes, hefting the amulet in a single hand. When Thor lifts a brow in question, Loki elaborates, “The protective spells laid upon on it are standard, but the nature of the basest charm—it is simple, yet elegant.” He traces the pattern at its centre, of a tiny longship engulfed in flames. “Our mother is skilled indeed,” he murmurs, fond.

“Are you going to explain the nature of this charm, or will I have to wring it from you?” Thor asks. He lets his fingers creep into the spaces beneath Loki’s arms, thinking to tickle the answer from his brother.

Loki twists away pre-emptively. “Thor,” he says, batting away Thor’s insistent hands, his lips set in a tight line. “The charm is for protection against the dead.”

“Oh.” Something in Loki’s tone—worry, perhaps, or fear—spurs Thor into action; the sooner Loki is wearing the amulet, the better. He takes it from Loki’s hand and slips it over Loki’s head, making to fasten it behind his neck, when Loki’s fingers close over Thor’s wrist, stilling him.

“We have no need for these,” Loki says. “You should give them to your friends. It will ward them from the dead, as long as they take care not to draw attention to themselves.” He pauses, waving a careless hand. “Perhaps the archer and the assassin, neither of whom have the advantage of a metal suit or supersoldier serum. Or, Norns forbid, latent gamma radiation.” His lips curls into a moue of distaste at that, and Thor laughs; despite the years, Loki has not outgrown his animosity toward Bruce’s alter ego.

It also strikes him that this is Loki being considerate in his own subtle way, and such a swell of affection surges in Thor’s chest that he starts pressing short, happy kisses to the corner of Loki’s mouth, his cheeks, and his eyes, before nuzzling Loki’s nose with his. Thor’s Midgardian friends have since informed him that this is called an ‘eskimo kiss’, and he makes it a point to give Loki at least one such demonstration of his love each day.

“All right, Thor,” Loki says, mashing his palm to Thor’s face to ward him off. “I swear, you are worse than an infant snow beast of Jotunheim in your affections.”

Thor furrows his brow as he draws back. “When have you encountered their infant snow beasts?” Knowing Loki, he asks more specifically, “When did you attempt to raise one? Have you attempted to—”

“No,” snaps Loki, “though I imagine their countenance would be much the same as yours: eager to please and easily impressed.”

“Oh? As you were, with Mother’s seiðr when we were young? As you still are?” Thor teases, touching his finger to the tip of Loki’s nose. When Loki appears positively mutinous, ready to fling Thor off him, Thor reaches for the carefully concealed set of daggers he brought with him, to soothe Loki’s temper. “A gift from Mother,” he says, “for you alone. She sends her love.”

Loki’s mouth falls open in surprise as he accepts the package and undoes the bindings. The way his eyes shine as he slides the pad of his thumb along the blades, reverent, fills Thor’s chest with an aching fondness. Moments like these are what he lives for: tiny pockets of time when Loki casts aside his façades, his expressions briefly those of genuine wonder and delight. And when Loki finishes marvelling at the knives, Thor presses his advantage, pushing into Loki’s space and nuzzling his cheek against Loki’s, acting the conduit for Frigga’s warmth, from across the universe and a distance light years away.

“Mmhn,” muses Loki, when Thor draws back and presses his thumb to Loki’s lower lip to kiss him, messy and wet. “That did not come from Mother.”

Thor smiles, sheepish. “That was all me,” he says, mimicking one of Tony’s favourite phrases when claiming credit for something. He nudges at Loki’s shoulders, until both he and Loki are splayed out along the bed, and starts mouthing kisses under Loki’s clothes. Reacquaints himself with the dip of Loki’s navel. The soft hair that trails beneath it, to the curve of Loki’s cock against his thigh. The sweet dampness of his—

Loki makes a strangled, startled sound. “Wait. Your friends. The apples,” he pants. His voice is tight with need, and Thor thinks he very much wants to fulfill that need, again and again until they are both sated and spent.

“We—we will not be long,” Thor says, and instantly berates himself for his clumsy answer. He means I have missed you. I worried for you. And the more maudlin Now that I have you, I will not let you go.

Loki snorts, but when he sighs and draws Thor into his arms, Thor knows Loki has seen the answer in his heart. And when they lie together, Thor shows him just how much he has missed Loki, has suffered for want of him, his heart a jagged half remade whole in Loki’s presence.

~

After the physical fortifications to the tower have been tested and hold fast, Thor brings his satchel up to the makeshift laboratory that Tony and Bruce have set up in one of the highest floors of the tower. He unfurls the satchel’s contents carefully onto a lab bench, breathing a sigh of relief, that the apples had not been harmed in his return crossing of the Bifrost.

From beside him, Loki blinks nonchalantly at the presence of the apples, a reminder of the realm he has willingly forsaken at present. He had little sympathy for Thor’s story about the trial it was to obtain them.

“If Odin did not want you to have the apples, you would not have any,” Loki had said.

“Oh.” Thor had been quiet, contemplative. He still has yet to unravel mystery of their father’s ways.

“Uh, okay,” Tony says now. He quirks a brow as the apples roll into place on the table. “So you took the rainbow ride not to go talk to your dad, but to bring us fruit? Not to sound terribly ungrateful, but food isn’t the major concern anymore.”

Thor inhales once to calm himself, resisting the urge to remind Tony that not two days past, Loki had nearly died for their food-hunting efforts. “These fruits I bring from Asgard have curing powers of a sort,” he explains. “Loki and I thought you might find a way to isolate their essence. In order to create an antidote for the disease running rampant in this realm.”

Bruce examines the gleam of the apples, sliding his fingers, careful, over their golden skin. “Are these the apples of legend?” he asks. “The apples of Iðunn, or whatever?”

“Yes,” Thor says, surprised, at the same time Loki says, “No”.

Loki throws him a vicious glare that has Thor wanting to curl in on himself, thunderer or no.

Tony simply laughs at their exchange and examines one of the apples at eye level. “These look pretty delicious,” he says. “We should make something with them.” Tony raises his eyebrows suddenly and jabs the air in front of Loki. “I’ve got it—apple pie.”

Loki makes a strangled sort of squawking noise, as if personally affronted and glares at him. “These are apples, as your colleague says, of legend. Use them wisely, Stark.” With that, he sweeps out of the lab with a righteous huff.

“Can you believe that guy?” Tony says to no one in particular, pointing his thumb in the direction Loki left in. “I mean, who doesn’t like apple pie?”

~

The next hours bring with them a tense monotony: Bruce and Tony have carefully pared away the apples’ skin, and set out to extract the apples’ juices while saving the seeds. They waste no part of the apples, aware of how difficult it was to procure them.

Loki hovers, half out of worry and half from disapproval of their usage, but Thor patiently explains that their friends are being careful with the apples. Distracts him with the other task set to them, which is to capture one of the draugr from outside, to use as a test subject.

“Wow, that is a fresh one,” Tony remarks, when an hour later, Thor returns with a draugr slung over his shoulder, squirming and twisting uselessly, its maw and limbs bound tight by thick, coiled ropes of Loki’s seiðr.

They discover very quickly that sedation does not work on draugar; somehow their physiology has changed enough that the usual sedation agents are rendered ineffective. Steve ends up having to tie it to a chair with actual rope and makeshift straps, reinforcing its bindings, and they keep it in a part of the laboratory that is sectioned off with tempered glass.

“Wait, are you seriously suggesting we babysit this thing?” Clint asks, jerking his chin behind him to where the draugr struggles in its bindings, attempting to throw its body toward the glass. The other Avengers have gathered in the lab to view the specimen that Thor has brought in, and the consensus is that no one is pleased this creature remains so close to their dwellings.

“Uh, yeah, unless you want it to break free and infect everyone,” says Tony. He turns to the others. “I want teams of two, around the clock, when Bruce and I aren’t in the lab.”

Thor nods his agreement. “It would not do to risk the safety of everyone in this tower for the sake of not having a guard.” He wraps subtle fingers around Loki’s waist, looks toward him for acknowledgment, and gets it, however reluctant. “Loki and I can take the first watch.”

“Great, yes!” Tony says enthusiastically, as if by volunteering for guard duty, Thor has solved all the problems of the world. “You and Loki, followed by Clint and Natasha. Steve, sorry, but can you handle the watch on your own?”

“If anything happens,” Steve says solemnly, “I’m sure I can take it on. And do what needs to be done.” It goes without saying, that should Steve fall in his attempt, the others too, must do what needs to be done.

Within five hours, Tony and Bruce manage to create a viable extract of Iðunn’s apples and after properly dosing it, they inject the draugr on a strict schedule, of one injection per day. It would not do to waste all their resources in one go.

The draugr shows no progress in the first week.

By the second week, the draugr appears more hollow-bellied from hunger, but there is still no reversion to its human form; no casting off of its rotting skin and sunken teeth to regain its original humanity.

The third week of trials shows no improvement on the draugr’s part, aside from the fact that the creature behind the glass has not starved to death, and has not fallen apart from lack of nutrition, its body kept intact and preserved by the extracts from Iðunn’s apples. Thor watches Tony and Bruce shake their heads and share a look, their lips pressed into thin, grim lines, as they are forced to a simple conclusion:

The dead stay dead.

From behind the wall of tempered glass, Loki sighs at their latest, fruitless experiment.

“You knew this would happen?” Thor asks, resigned.

“I suspected as much,” Loki says. “But I thought to let them try. In case of—” Loki stops. “In case I was wrong,” he finishes lamely.

“I, too, had hoped—” Thor starts, before words fail him, much as the results of Tony and Bruce’s experiment fail them.

“I know,” Loki says, quiet. “Ever the optimist, were you not?” He squeezes Thor’s hand, twining their fingers together, a gesture Thor finds immensely reassuring. Taps at his chin with his free hand, thoughtful. “There may yet be another way.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

Loki hums and keys in the code for the makeshift laboratory to enter. Brings his free hand up in a sharp, slashing motion, killing the draugr where it stands, ignoring Tony’s squawk of surprise and Bruce’s recoil backward from the bloody bisection of its head.

“Did you just—you can’t just—you killed our only test subject!” Bruce sputters, attempting to wipe himself clean of the blood and grime sprayed over him.

“If, at any point,” Loki says to the three of them at once, “you decide to focus your efforts on those who are living, instead of attempting to save those lost, we may have a fighting chance.” He looks pointedly toward their meagre store of what is left of the apples. “Our resources are not infinite.”

Tony looks down at the rumpled heap of draugr, bleeding sluggishly out into the tiled white flooring. “Okay, yeah, I’d be down with that. This experiment was a bust anyway.”

Bruce sighs and nods his acquiescence with the idea.

No one says anything when Loki cleans up the mess with seiðr, though Thor feels a twinge of sadness as Loki warps the draugr’s body away into nothingness. The draugr was a person once, someone with real hopes and dreams, before the infection robbed them of their humanity. Turned them into a husk of their former self, one bent on the rabid consumption of flesh. Before the body disappears completely, Thor catches sight of the rags it was wearing, muddied cloth that looks as if it could have been a dress, of bright summer print, with flowers embroidered along the edges.

It strikes him then that the draugr was a she, not a they. That she might once have been someone’s mother; a daughter, even.

Now, it is as if she never existed at all.

~

On Loki’s recommendation, Tony and Bruce turn their attentions toward the possibility of using the apples’ essence to prevent the disease. It is not a true vaccine they strive to make, as even the smallest amount of infection has been known to result in death and reawakening. It should, however, if all goes well, prevent those who are bitten or otherwise attacked from changing.

“Obviously, this does jack-all if the horde decides to go to town and have their own all-you-can-eat, but each person that doesn’t turn is just one less draugr to deal with, right?” says Tony, as he presses a pipette’s worth of liquid into a clear vial.

He says this with a brightness that is too earnest to be genuine. Perhaps he still mourns for Pepper, but his time in the lab with Bruce and his new purpose in finding a form of prevention has done wonders for lifting Tony’s spirits.

While Tony and Bruce work out the new numbers and dosages needed—they must dose it even more carefully now, as their subjects will be live humans, themselves, even—Loki conceals the tower with cloaking and silencing spells when he can sustain them. Everyone stays as quiet as they can so as to not strain Loki’s efforts, and Tony himself has long since disabled J.A.R.V.I.S.’ voice patterns within the tower, switching instead to text-based alerts.

In the meantime, the other Avengers continue their regimen of weekly food-scavenging efforts.

It’s another routine run for Clint and Natasha, armed with their usual weaponry and the amulets Frigga provided, when everything goes to Hel.

The call comes in while Thor is helping Loki create a stronger barrier around the tower; he presses runes, imbued with basil and blood, into the glass with his fingers as Loki intones his enchantments, to fortify the lower levels against the ever increasing number of draugar gathered there.

“Mayday,” Clint says urgently, as their earpieces crackle to life. The Avengers continue to communicate on a special comm link Tony sustains via the tower’s power. “Mayday, mayday. Draugar swarm. Requesting backup. On Rivington Street, between Essex and Norfolk.”

Thor looks to Loki, panicked; Tony and Bruce are in the lab, and Tony will need time to suit up. Steve cannot fly without assistance. “Loki.” He touches his brother’s arm.

Loki clutches Thor’s forearm, his fingers like eagle’s claws, tight. “No,” he says, pale. “Thor, no.”

There is no time to argue; Thor wraps his hand tight around Mjölnir’s haft. “I must,” he says. He drops a kiss to Loki’s hair and takes to the sky with Mjölnir at the ready.

By the time he arrives at Rivington Street, Clint and Natasha have run out of ammunition, forced to resort to close quarters combat weapons.

“Thor!” Clint calls, as loudly as he dares. “I’ve never been so glad to see you in my life.” He shoves his knife through the eye socket of a draugr. Pulls it out again with a schunk, only to drive it into the brain of the next.

“Shut up,” snarls Natasha. She grits her teeth against the spray of blood that mars her face as she slips a dagger into a nearby draugr. “And keep killing.”

That he and Natasha have lasted this long can only be attributed to the amulets, and Thor makes a mental note to thank his mother the next time he sees her. For now, he concentrates on beating back the swarm, swinging Mjölnir in short, swift arcs, momentum building with each motion. Their rotten bodies shatter under his might, though he takes no pleasure from their destruction.

It is only when Clint yelps in surprise that Thor realizes there is a new group of draugar swarming from his right, and there is suddenly no room to swing Mjölnir, no place for her to protect him. He throws his other hand up to shield himself while trying to tear Mjölnir free, which is when sharp, jagged teeth rip into his hand. There is barely time to register the pain when another draugr sinks teeth deep into his thigh.

He wrenches Mjölnir free of the grasping, clawing hands and slams her into the ground, creating a shockwave that throws the draugr back, stunning them, and Clint and Natasha rush over to help as he dispatches them, caving their heads in one after another. When the last of the draugar lie dead along the pavement, he hitches Mjölnir back on his belt just as Natasha and Clint hurry to his side.

“Thor? Thanks for coming for us,” Clint says, but his voice seems too far away, fading in and out of focus like a faulty radio. Thor tries to stand up straight, to tell Clint to think nothing of his coming, but he stumbles forward into Clint’s arms instead.

“Thor? You okay there, buddy?” Clint asks. His face goes pale, quickly. “Oh. Shit.”

Thor notices then the stream of blood flowing sluggishly from his hand. The dull throb of another from his thigh. “Oh,” he says stupidly. “I—I’ve been—”

“Take it easy,” Natasha says, crouching to his level. She fashions a crude tourniquet from the hem of her jacket for his hand, while Clint quickly cinches his belt over the wound in Thor’s thigh. She and Clint share a significant look when she feels Thor’s forehead.

Thor’s vision is starting to become fuzzy around the edges, too blurry as his head swims, and his head—his head is too hot by half, his body is burning, his throat parched. It feels as if he has fallen into the core of Muspelheim itself. “Water,” he croaks.

“We’ve got water back at the tower,” Natasha insists, as she and Clint hike him to his feet and tug him along.

Thor tries to fight them off; he is six hundred pounds of dead weight now, and by all rights, they should leave him here to perish among the draugar. Not bring him back where he could infect the others. “Leave me,” he mumbles. His only regret is that he will never again see—

“Loki,” Natasha says simply, bracing her arm along Thor’s shoulders.

“Loki?” Thor echoes. His brother, his lover, his everything. He stops fighting the arms that support his bulk, but still his throat is too dry, too parched, his world blurring around the edges, vision swimming further with each step he takes. His skin feels fever-hot.

Clint reaches out and hefts a solid arm across his waist. “Loki,” he says fiercely into Thor’s ear.

“Loki,” Thor whispers back, his voice breaking with the effort. He takes another step, then another, to the quiet susurrus of Natasha and Clint saying, Loki, Loki, Loki as if he is something to live for, to never stop fighting for.

Thor slips from their grasp numerous times; neither of his friends are built to portage an Asgardian, let alone over long distances and in such perilous areas, but each time they reach out and heft him higher onto their shoulders. Grasp him more securely. “We’ve got you, Thor,” says Clint. “We’ve got you.”

They make the long, arduous trek back to the tower, taking multiple detours, back roads and cramped alleyways, until they find the little-used entry to the Avengers tower. Together, Natasha and Clint drag Thor inside. Tony, somehow alerted to their presence—likely a courtesy of J.A.R.V.I.S.’ all-seeing capabilities—rushes down to meet them.

“Jesus fuck,” says Tony, his eyes wide, horrified at the sight of Thor.

Thor wonders if it is for fear that they will soon have an undead god on their hands. Or that one of their own has been infected. If in his friends’ heart of hearts they have already decided which of them will have to kill him, to put him out of his misery if he does turn.

He opens his mouth to croak out one word that might save his life, or be his last request. “Loki,” he gasps.

If he turns, this is the person he wants to see before he goes. “Loki,” he rasps again, making a sluggish flailing motion, and around him, he can hear the panicked cries of Someone get his brother here now, and No, you are lying, not Thor—never Thor. Then there are hands, pale and cool, stroking his brow, a small comfort in the face of the day he has had, and Thor clings to them, desperate.

A prick of pain at his neck follows immediately after, and everything goes mercifully, painlessly dark.


(tbc - Chapter 3)