loki x avenger!reader
summary: after a mission goes wrong, a strange alien poison leaves you with only one chance of survival: treatment in asgard.
english it’s not my first language!
the medbay is never quiet after a mission.
someone’s complaining about the bruise forming along their ribs. sam insists for what has to be the fifth time, that he didn’t crash into the quinjet, the quinjet crashed into him. natasha is already walking steve through everything that happened inside the abandoned facility while clint steals a handful of ice packs from the freezer and pretends he has no idea who left the coffee machine on.
it’s familiar.
comforting, even.
missions end like this more often than anyone would like to admit. everyone comes home carrying a few new cuts and bruises, bruce patches them up, and by dinner they’re arguing over takeout in the kitchen as if they hadn’t nearly died a few hours earlier.
you expect today to be no different.
which is probably why you don’t think much of the sting in your arm.
adrenaline does strange things to the body. it hides pain until it decides you’re safe enough to feel it, and right now all you want is to shower, change into clean clothes, and sleep for the next twelve hours.
“you’re bleeding.” wanda’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.
you glance down, following where she’s looking, and find a tear in the sleeve of your suit. the fabric around your forearm is darker than the rest, soaked through with blood you’d somehow failed to notice.
“…well,” you mutter. “that explains the sting.”
she doesn’t laugh. “did you know that was there?”
“obviously.” she waits. “…no.”
wanda sighs, already reaching for the first aid kit sitting on the counter beside the examination beds.
“it’s barely a scratch.”
“you said that when you fractured your wrist.”
“technically, i said i thought it was a sprain.”
“you were wrong.”
“i usually am.”
that earns the smallest smile, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. “sit.”
you consider arguing.
instead, you hop onto the nearest examination table with as much dignity as someone can manage while covered in dust, dried blood, and whatever had exploded inside the alien facility an hour ago.
bruce notices the moment he walks back into the room. “what happened?”
“nothing,” you and wanda answer at the same time.
he gives you both a look. “…define ‘nothing.’”
“small cut,” you say.
“she didn’t notice she was bleeding.”
bruce sighs the way only a man who’s spent years working with superheroes can. “of course she didn’t.” he pulls on a fresh pair of gloves before gently rolling back the torn sleeve of your uniform. the wound itself is shallow. too shallow to justify the amount of blood. “that’s…” his voice trails off.
you follow his gaze.
thin silver lines branch away from the cut beneath your skin, faint enough that you almost convince yourself they’re a trick of the light. they pulse once before fading again, disappearing into your arm as though they’d never been there.
“…did that just move?” you ask quietly.
bruce doesn’t answer.
he reaches for the handheld scanner beside him, passing it slowly over your arm while the room around you continues as normal. the soft conversation across the medbay fades into the background beneath the steady electronic hum.
the scanner beeps.
once.
then again.
bruce’s brow furrows. “friday.”
“yes, dr. banner?”
“run these readings against every known terrestrial toxin.”
“searching.” the silence stretches just long enough for unease to settle in your stomach. “no matches found.”
bruce doesn’t look surprised. if anything, he looks more concerned. “expand the search.”
“including extraterrestrial compounds catalogued by shield, stark industries, and s.w.o.r.d.” another pause. “no confirmed matches.”
you let out a quiet laugh, though it comes out weaker than you’d intended. “well… that’s never a sentence you want to hear.”
no one laughs with you.
bruce kneels in front of you again, studying the wound more closely. “does it hurt?”
“a little.”
“how much is ‘a little’?”
“just enough now that you’re asking.”
before he can respond, the burning spreads.
you suck in a sharp breath as heat races beneath your skin, following those same silver veins now stretching farther across your forearm. it feels wrong. not like pain, exactly. more like something moving where nothing should be.
bruce notices it immediately. “what happened during the mission?”
you close your eyes, forcing yourself to think past the growing ache. “there were containers.”
“containers?”
“in the lab.” you shake your head. “glass, maybe. i don’t know. one of them shattered during the fight.”
“what was inside?”
“…blue.” it sounds ridiculous the moment you say it. “it looked like smoke, but heavier somehow. almost… liquid.” you remember it now.
the way it had curled through the air instead of dispersing. it had wrapped itself around your arm for the briefest second before disappearing.
you’d assumed it had dissolved.
apparently, it hadn’t.
thor, who’d remained unusually quiet since everyone returned to the compound, steps closer. “did it touch you?”
you nod. “only for a second.”
his expression changes so subtly that anyone else might’ve missed it.
you don’t. “thor?”
he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes remain fixed on the silver veins slowly winding their way beneath your skin.
when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before. “banner.”
bruce looks up.
“this is no poison of midgard.”
the room falls silent.
“you recognize it?” steve asks.
thor hesitates. “not by name.” something about that answer unsettles you more than if he’d simply said no. “but i’ve heard tales of such things. substances born beyond the nine realms, carrying both science… and magic.”
bruce folds his arms. “can we treat it?”
thor’s silence is answer enough. “not here.”
another pulse shoots through your arm, stronger this time. your fingers twitch involuntarily. you swallow. “…that’s not a great sign, is it?”
thor meets your eyes.
for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks genuinely worried. “there are healers in asgard whose knowledge reaches back thousands of years. if anyone can help you, it is them.”
you blink. “you’re serious.”
“entirely.”
you glance around the room.
at bruce.
at steve.
at wanda, who looks just as anxious as you suddenly feel.
“…you’re telling me i’m being medically evacuated.”
thor nods. “to another realm.”
“…that’s somehow worse than another planet.”
a laugh escapes him despite everything. “perhaps.” he rests a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “have faith.”
you’ve spent years listening to thor talk about asgard.
sometimes over breakfast.
sometimes after missions, when something on earth reminded him of home. he’d describe towering halls of gold, gardens that bloomed year-round, feasts that lasted until sunrise, and skies painted in colors no camera could ever capture.
you’d always assumed he was embellishing.
he wasn’t.
if anything, he’d failed to describe it well enough.
the moment the bifrost fades beneath your feet, you’re met with a city that feels less like somewhere people live and more like somewhere legends are born. sunlight spills across polished stone, catching on towers that seem impossibly tall. bridges stretch between buildings carved into the mountainside, waterfalls disappearing into rivers so clear they almost look like glass.
people move through it all as though none of it is extraordinary. as though living in a place this beautiful eventually becomes ordinary. the thought almost makes you smile.
almost.
because the burning returns with enough force to make your knees buckle.
before you hit the ground, thor catches your arm. “easy.”
you steady yourself against him, embarrassed more than anything. “sorry.”
“there is nothing to apologize for.”
you take one more look at the city beyond the palace gates, committing as much of it to memory as the fever will allow. “…it’s beautiful.”
thor follows your gaze. a softness settles over his features. “yes.”
for a moment, he isn’t an avenger. he isn’t a prince. he’s simply someone who’s finally come home.
he looks back at you. “come.” his smile is small, but reassuring. “my mother is already waiting.”
then you feel how everything goes black.
sleep comes in fragments.
sometimes you drift off for what feels like hours, only to wake and find the sunlight hasn’t moved. other times you’re certain you’ve only closed your eyes for a second before someone gently shakes your shoulder, asking you to drink another bitter medicine or checking your temperature with the back of their hand.
it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed.
the room itself never changes.
the windows remain open just enough to let the afternoon breeze carry in the scent of flowers from somewhere below, mingling with dried herbs hanging from the wooden beams overhead. every surface seems to glow beneath the golden light pouring through the stained glass, and despite feeling worse than you have in years, you can’t help wondering if every room in the palace looks this beautiful.
when you wake again, someone is reading.
the voice is soft enough that you can’t quite make out the words, but it fills the silence in a way that feels almost comforting. you turn your head toward the sound and find a woman seated beside your bed, a thick book resting in her lap.
she notices your movement almost immediately. “you’re awake.”
she closes the book, carefully slipping a ribbon between the pages before setting it aside. despite the crown resting delicately against her silver hair, she doesn’t look like a queen. not in the way you’d imagined one, anyway. there’s nothing distant about her, nothing intimidating.
if anything, she reminds you of someone’s mother waiting beside a hospital bed.
“…i’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice rough from sleep. “i don’t think we’ve met.”
her smile widens. “no. but i’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“…hopefully nothing embarrassing.”
“that depends.” amusement dances across her face. “thor speaks very highly of you.”
you groan. “that’s somehow worse.”
a quiet laugh escapes her. “i’m frigga.”
you’d already guessed as much.
thor had spoken about his mother often enough during quiet evenings at the compound, usually whenever someone asked him where he’d learned to cook or why he insisted on decorating for every holiday, regardless of whether anyone else celebrated it.
meeting her now, you understand immediately.
kindness seems to settle around her as naturally as sunlight. “how are you feeling?” she asks.
you consider lying. instead, you settle for honesty. “…like i got hit by a spaceship.”
“that would certainly explain a few things.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
another laugh slips past your lips before the familiar burning cuts it short. your smile disappears. the pain starts deep beneath your skin, spreading slowly through your arm until your entire body tenses against the mattress.
frigga notices immediately. she doesn’t panic. she simply reaches for your hand. “easy.”
her thumb brushes absentminded circles across your knuckles as the healers gather around the bed once more. you’d learned quickly that they always arrived when the pain did, carrying bowls filled with shimmering water and pouches of crushed herbs whose names you couldn’t pronounce.
one kneels beside you, carefully tracing glowing runes across your forearm. another begins chanting beneath his breath.
the air grows warmer.
the magic feels different every time.
today it reminds you of standing too close to a fire. at first, the burning eases. you let yourself hope. then it comes back twice as strong.
a sharp gasp escapes you before you can stop it.
silver veins bloom beneath your skin, winding farther up your arm than they’d managed before. one of the healers immediately changes the spell, his voice growing louder as green light pours from his hands.
the veins spread again.
“more seiðr,” someone says. another healer joins in. the light brightens. so does the pain.
you squeeze your eyes shut.
“stop.” the voice isn’t loud.
it doesn’t have to be.
the room falls silent almost instantly.
you force your eyes open.
a man stands near the doorway, dressed almost entirely in black, as though he’d wandered into the wrong room and hadn’t yet decided whether to leave. dark hair falls carelessly across his forehead, and although his expression is calm, his eyes never leave your arm.
one of the healers straightens. “my prince.”
the stranger ignores him. “you’re feeding it.”
confusion passes through the room.
the oldest healer frowns. “we’re drawing the poison from her body.”
“you’re attempting to.” his voice remains perfectly even, never rising above conversation. “every spell you’ve cast has strengthened it before weakening it.”
“that’s impossible.”
“is it?” he nods toward your arm.
everyone follows his gaze.
another pulse travels beneath your skin.
another silver branch appears.
no one says anything.
the men in black turns to see frigga.
only then does frigga shift her attention from your face to the magic itself. she’d spent the entire treatment watching you, not the spell, and now her eyes linger on the silver slowly weaving its way beneath your skin.
“…i wasn’t watching the magic.” there’s no shame in the admission. only quiet realization. “i was watching her.”
the stranger’s expression softens almost imperceptibly. “i noticed.”
he steps closer to the bed, stopping just beside you. for the first time, he kneels, bringing himself level with your arm instead of towering over it. he studies the silver veins for a long moment, his head tilting ever so slightly as though listening to something no one else can hear.
“it’s alive,” he murmurs.
one of the healers looks unconvinced. “alive?”
“not in the way we are.” he finally looks up. “it adapts. every attempt to force it out teaches it how to survive the next spell.”
the room grows quiet again.
frigga meets his gaze. “what would you do?” she smiles kindly to him.
he doesn’t answer immediately.
instead, he looks at you.
really looks at you.
your breathing has become uneven. sweat clings to your forehead. your hand is still wrapped tightly around frigga’s.
finally, he extends one hand. “may i?”
frigga nods before you can.
the green light gathering around his fingers is unlike anything you’ve felt since arriving in asgard. it isn’t warm or overwhelming. it settles over your skin like cool rain after a summer storm, quiet and impossibly gentle.
the pain doesn’t disappear.
it simply… stops growing.
the silver veins remain exactly where they are. motionless.
sleeping.
for the first time in what feels like days, you manage to take a full breath.
the stranger lowers his hand, the last traces of green magic fading into the air around him.
“…did it work?” you ask quietly.
“no.” it’s a simple answer. almost apologetic. “then…” he glances once more at your arm. “i convinced it to wait.”
you stare at him for a second before letting out the weakest laugh imaginable. “…that’s either incredibly reassuring…” your voice trails off. “…or the most terrifying sentence i’ve ever heard.”
this time, he smiles.
it’s small enough that you almost miss it. “i’ve found those two things are rarely mutually exclusive.”
you smile despite yourself.
it’s the first time since arriving in asgard that the pain hasn’t been the only thing occupying your thoughts.
and somehow…
you have a feeling it won’t be the last time you see the strange man in black.
the next morning, you wake before anyone else.
or at least, you think you do.
the room is quieter than it had been the day before. sunlight pours through the tall windows, painting the stone floor in warm shades of amber, and somewhere outside, birds you don’t recognize sing loud enough to drift through the open balcony doors.
for the first time since arriving in asgard…
your arm doesn’t hurt.
not completely.
there’s still an ache buried beneath your skin, but it’s dull now. manageable. enough that you can flex your fingers without immediately regretting it.
you spend several minutes doing exactly that, watching the silver veins beneath your wrist. they’re still there, faint as ever, but they haven’t moved.
a quiet knock interrupts your thoughts. before you have the chance to answer, the door opens.
thor steps inside carrying a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. “you’re awake.”
“good morning to you too.”
he smiles, setting the tray down on the small table beside your bed. “how do you feel?”
you wiggle your fingers dramatically. “still attached.”
“…i shall take that as progress.”
“that’s probably wise.”
he looks toward your arm almost immediately. you notice.
everyone does.
they all look there first now.
“it hasn’t spread,” he says, almost to himself.
“no.”
“good.” there’s relief in his voice, though he tries to hide it.
you’ve known thor long enough to recognize when he’s worried. “you don’t have to keep checking every five minutes.”
he raises an eyebrow. “i do not.”
“thor.”
“…every ten minutes.”
you laugh. “you’re impossible.”
“i’ve been told that runs in the family.”
before you can ask what exactly that’s supposed to mean, another knock echoes through the room.
frigga enters carrying a small vase filled with pale blue flowers. their petals shimmer every time they catch the light. “i thought your room could use some color,” she says as she sets them beside the window.
“…i’m starting to think everyone in asgard is determined to make me feel guilty for leaving eventually.”
she smiles knowingly. “that is entirely the point.”
the conversation drifts easily after that.
thor tells a story about accidentally releasing three goats inside the palace kitchens when he was a child. frigga corrects him. “it was five.”
“i maintain two of them simply followed the others.”
“they ate the curtains.”
“they were hungry.”
you laugh so hard your side begins to ache.
it’s worth it.
for a little while, you almost forget why you’re here.
by the afternoon, the healers are finally willing to let you leave the room. “only for a short walk,” one of them insists. “and no stairs.”
“what if i find myself at the top of some?”
“then you’ve ignored me completely.”
“…fair.”
the palace is quieter than you’d expected. not empty. lived in.
servants pass through the halls carrying baskets of fruit, folded linens, stacks of books. somewhere in the distance, music drifts through an open corridor, disappearing as quickly as it came. every few steps, another impossibly large window overlooks the city below.
you stop at nearly every one. thor hadn’t lied.
if anything…
he’d undersold it.
“you’re meant to be resting.” the voice startles you just enough to make you turn.
it’s him.
the stranger from yesterday.
today he isn’t dressed quite so formally. still dark colors, though simpler than before, and a book tucked beneath one arm as though he’d been on his way somewhere before finding you standing in the hallway.
“…i am resting.”
he glances toward the window. “standing?”
“very peacefully.”
“…remarkable.”
you grin. “i’ve always been talented.”
his eyes linger on your arm. “how does it feel?”
you look down. “better.”
“a dangerous word.”
“why?”
“because people often mistake ‘better’ for ‘well.’”
you hadn’t thought about that. “i suppose that’s true.”
he nods once, satisfied for reasons you don’t entirely understand. for a moment, neither of you says anything. it’s not uncomfortable. just…
quiet.
you return your attention to the city below. “does living here ever stop feeling… unbelievable?”
he follows your gaze. after a long pause, he answers. “eventually.”
“…really?”
“then you leave.”
you look at him. “leave?”
“travel long enough.” his expression softens ever so slightly. “when you return, you remember to look at it again.”
you smile. “i like that.”
“most people don’t.”
“most people are wrong.”
for the briefest moment, something flashes across his face.
surprise.
then amusement.
it’s subtle.
gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“…you’re different than i expected.” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
he tilts his head. “expected?”
“well…” you gesture vaguely toward him. “you’re an asgardian prince.”
“…an unfortunate circumstance beyond my control.”
“i just assumed you’d be…” you hesitate. “more…”
“princely?”
“yes.”
his lips twitch. “i’ve been informed i perform the role rather poorly.”
you laugh again. “i don’t know.” you glance toward the book tucked beneath his arm. “you’ve got the mysterious wandering hallways part down.”
he looks at the book as though he’d forgotten he was holding it. “…perhaps.”
before either of you can say anything else, another voice echoes through the corridor. “there you are.”
thor.
his eyes move from you…
to the prince beside you…
then back again.
his expression changes almost imperceptibly. “…brother.”
the stranger offers the smallest nod. “thor.”
you blink.
brother?
the name reaches you a second before the realization does.
loki.
that loki.
you’d heard the stories.
you’d read the mission reports.
you’d listened to natasha complain about the paperwork after new york more than once, usually while insisting that aliens had somehow managed to create even more forms than shield.
somehow…
he’d never looked the way you’d imagined. you don’t know what you’d expected. someone louder, perhaps.
crueler.
someone who carried every terrible story you’d ever heard across his shoulders. instead, all you can think is.
this is the man everyone warned me about?
it’s almost disappointing.
because the man standing beside you is quiet. patient. irritatingly observant.
he’d spent the better part of the afternoon explaining why the poison in your veins behaved more like instinct than illness, and somewhere between his lectures on seiðr and your endless complaints about the taste of asgardian medicine, you’d completely forgotten you were speaking to the prince who once tried to conquer earth.
it becomes a habit before either of you realizes it.
every afternoon, once the healers are satisfied that the poison has remained dormant for another few hours, you’re allowed to leave your room.
at first, it’s only for a few minutes. a slow walk through the palace gardens. a quiet stroll along one of the endless balconies overlooking the city.
always accompanied by someone. usually thor. sometimes one of the healers.
once, much to your surprise, frigga herself. she never treats you like a patient. she asks about midgard instead.
about the foods people cook when they’re celebrating, the music they listen to, the books children grow up hearing before bed. in return, she tells you stories of asgard, not the grand battles or kings immortalized in history, but ordinary things. festivals held during the first snowfall, flowers that only bloom beneath moonlight, traditions older than the palace itself.
you find yourself looking forward to those conversations almost as much as the walks.
almost.
because somehow, the prince is always there.
not waiting for you.
never waiting.
he simply happens to be reading beneath the same tree every afternoon, or wandering the same corridors you’re allowed to explore, or standing on the same balcony overlooking the city whenever you stop to admire the view.
you never ask if he’s following you. he never offers an explanation. eventually, you stop pretending the encounters are accidental.
conversations come easily after that. they begin with simple questions, the kind strangers ask when they have nothing else to say. “why do humans insist on shaking hands?”, “do your celebrations differ from one kingdom to another?”, “why do your people build monuments to those who are gone instead of those who are still living?”
you answer each one as best you can, laughing whenever his expression shifts somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
in return, he tells you about asgard. not the stories thor tells, full of glorious battles and impossible victories. his are quieter.
he tells you which gardens bloom first when winter ends, which hallway catches the sunrise better than any other, why the palace library was built beneath a glass ceiling, and how the stars look different depending on which realm you’re standing in.
they’re the kinds of details only someone who has lived there their entire life would notice.
and somehow…
they’re the ones you remember most.
the poison, however, refuses to become part of the routine.
some mornings you wake convinced it’s gone, only for the familiar warmth beneath your skin to return before sunset. whenever it does, the healers stop whatever treatment they’re attempting and send for him.
you never hear anyone ask.
he simply appears.
his seiðr doesn’t cure the poison.
it never claims to.
it only calms it, coaxing it back into stillness before it has the chance to spread farther.
each time, the relief lasts a little longer. each time, he stays a little after the treatment is over. at first, the conversations end the moment the pain does.
then they linger. a few minutes. half an hour. sometimes longer. neither of you seems particularly eager to be the first one to leave.
thor notices.
of course he does.
he starts visiting more often under the excuse of checking on your recovery, though the way his eyes immediately find his brother whenever he enters the room makes the excuse less convincing each day.
he never says anything.
not while you’re there.
but the sigh he lets out every time he finds the two of you talking tells you enough.
frigga notices, too.
and unlike thor…
she smiles.
it doesn’t take long before everyone notices.
not because either of you is particularly obvious about it, but because routines have a way of becoming visible to everyone except the people living them.
the healers begin expecting the prince’s arrival whenever your treatments are scheduled. servants stop looking surprised when they find the two of you walking the gardens together after dinner. even the palace librarians have grown accustomed to setting aside whichever history book he insists you’ll enjoy next, despite your repeated claims that history has never been your strongest subject.
you still aren’t entirely convinced he’s the one choosing the books.
he insists otherwise.
“you’ve finished the last three.”
“because you kept asking questions halfway through.”
“precisely.”
“that’s hardly fair.”
“i wasn’t aiming for fairness.”
you roll your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips ruins the effect entirely. “you’re impossible.”
“i’ve heard.”
“from thor?”
“mostly.”
the conversation comes to an easy stop as he turns another page, and for a while the only sound filling the room is the quiet crackle of the fireplace. the silence never feels awkward with him. you’ve come to realize that’s one of the things you enjoy most. neither of you seems particularly interested in speaking simply for the sake of filling the room with noise.
the poison hasn’t flared since that morning, but he still insists on checking the silver veins stretching beneath your wrist whenever he visits. they haven’t spread in two days.
the improvement is small.
it’s enough.
“if they remain like this,” he says quietly, his fingertips hovering just above your skin, “the healers may be able to attempt the final treatment soon.”
you glance down at your arm. “…you sound almost disappointed.”
he looks at you, faintly puzzled. “that you might recover?”
“no.” your smile softens. “that i’ll leave.” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
for the first time since you’ve met him, he doesn’t answer immediately. his gaze drops back to the silver tracing your wrist, though you have the distinct feeling he’s no longer looking at it. “…i hadn’t considered it.”
you don’t know why that answer makes your chest feel strangely lighter.
before either of you can say anything else, the door swings open.
thor freezes.
his gaze moves from you to loki, then to the open book resting forgotten on the table beside you. finally, his eyes settle on your wrist, where loki’s hand still hovers over the fading silver veins.
he lets out a long sigh. “…again.”
loki doesn’t even look up. “again.”
thor steps farther into the room, setting down the tray he’d been carrying with exaggerated care. “i was looking for you.” he says referring to loki.
“and you’ve found me.”
“that isn’t the point.”
“then i’m afraid i’ve misunderstood the objective.”
you lower your head, pretending to be deeply interested in the blanket draped across your lap. it doesn’t work.
thor notices the smile you’re trying to hide almost immediately. “don’t.”
you look up innocently. “don’t what?”
“encourage him.”
“i haven’t said anything.”
“you smiled.”
“…am i not allowed to smile?”
“not at him.”
you laugh before you can stop yourself. “thor.”
“what?”
“you’re making this sound much stranger than it is.”
“am i?” he gestures vaguely toward the two of you. “i’ve lived with him for centuries.”
“and?”
“this is unusual.”
loki finally closes the book. “brother.”
“no.”
“no?”
“i know that tone.”
“…what tone?”
“the one you use when you’re about to pretend everything is perfectly normal.”
loki considers that. “everything is perfectly normal.”
thor stares at him. “you’ve voluntarily spent time with the same person every day for the past week.”
“…have i?”
“yes.”
“how observant.”
thor closes his eyes.
you can practically see him counting to ten.
a quiet laugh echoes from the doorway before he has the chance to answer.
“i was wondering where you had disappeared to.” frigga steps into the room carrying a small basket filled with fresh fruit, though the smile on her face suggests she’d heard enough of the conversation before entering.
she looks from thor to loki, then finally to you. “have i interrupted something?”
“an interrogation,” loki answers.
“a perfectly reasonable conversation,” thor corrects at the same time.
frigga hums thoughtfully. “i see.” she sets the basket on the table before turning back to her eldest son. “and what conclusion have you reached?”
thor hesitates. “i’m still trying to determine why he’s here.”
“must there be a reason?”
“mother.”
“thor.” she smiles gently. “perhaps he simply enjoys the company.”
the room grows unexpectedly quiet.
your eyes drift toward loki.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, he looks out the open window for a moment before speaking, his voice quieter than before. “i do.” two simple words. nothing more.
they shouldn’t feel significant.
somehow…
they do.
you catch frigga watching him from the corner of your eye. there’s no surprise in her expression, only a quiet sort of happiness, as though she’d been waiting a long time to hear him admit something so ordinary.
thor notices it too.
his shoulders relax, the tension leaving them little by little before he finally lets out another sigh. “…well.” he looks between the two of you one last time. “i suppose there are worse habits you could’ve picked up.”
loki tilts his head. “you make me sound terribly difficult.”
thor gives him a look. “must i remind you of the snake?”
“…that happened once.”
“twice.”
“the second time was funny.”
“to you.”
“precisely.”
you can’t help laughing.
it’s enough to earn an exasperated shake of thor’s head, though the smile he tries to suppress gives him away.
for the first time since arriving in asgard, it almost feels less like you’re a guest recovering in the royal palace…
and more like you’ve somehow stumbled into the middle of a family.
the cure works.
not all at once. there isn’t a brilliant flash of light or some miraculous moment where the poison simply disappears. instead, the silver beneath your skin fades little by little over the course of two days, until one morning you wake to find nothing but smooth skin where delicate veins of light had once spread.
for the first time since arriving in asgard…
nothing hurts.
the healers are pleased with the results. thor looks as though an impossible weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. frigga thanks every healer who had a hand in your recovery before insisting they deserved far more credit than they were willing to accept.
you spend your final morning wandering the palace one last time, memorizing corridors you’d only just learned to navigate, gardens that had somehow become familiar, and balconies overlooking a city you wished you’d had longer to know.
it’s strange how quickly somewhere can begin to feel like home. it’s stranger still how quickly you can miss it before you’ve even left.
thor finds you just before midday. “heimdall is ready.”
you nod. “…already?”
“i’m afraid so.”
the walk toward the bifrost is slower than the one you’d taken when you first arrived. then, every step had been uncertain. now, each one feels reluctant.
frigga is already waiting when you arrive, standing beside heimdall with the same gentle smile she’d worn since the day you’d opened your eyes in the healing chambers.
she embraces you before you have the chance to say anything. “you’ll always be welcome here.”
“thank you.” the words feel impossibly small compared to everything she’d done for you.
she only smiles. “take care of yourself.”
“i will.”
you glance around almost instinctively.
the palace rises proudly behind you, servants moving through its halls as though today is no different from any other.
your eyes search the courtyard. the balconies. the gardens.
nothing.
thor notices. “…looking for someone?”
you try to sound casual. “…i was hoping to say goodbye.”
understanding settles over his features almost immediately. he looks toward the palace before shaking his head. “i haven’t seen him today.”
you nod. “…right.”
it shouldn’t disappoint you as much as it does. you’ve only known him for a handful of days. he doesn’t owe you a farewell.
still…
you’d hoped.
heimdall rests both hands on the hilt of his sword. “are you prepared?”
you draw in a slow breath. “…i think so.”
the bifrost begins to glow.
“not yet.” the familiar voice reaches you before the light does.
you turn so quickly you’re surprised you don’t make yourself dizzy.
loki crosses the bridge at an unhurried pace, as though he’d planned to arrive exactly now all along. one hand remains tucked behind his back until he finally stops in front of you.
“you almost missed me.”
one corner of his mouth lifts “i rarely miss anything.”
thor snorts. “you nearly missed the bifrost.”
“details.”
you laugh quietly, relieved enough that you don’t bother hiding it.
loki finally brings his hand forward.
resting against his palm is a pressed golden leaf, preserved between two impossibly thin pieces of crystal. delicate silver runes frame the edges, catching the sunlight whenever you tilt it.
“it fell from one of the trees in the palace gardens,” he explains. “they bloom only once every few decades.”
you turn it over carefully, afraid even your fingertips might damage it. “…it’s beautiful.”
“i thought you might like something to remember asgard by.”
your eyes lift to his. “i don’t think forgetting asgard was ever a possibility.” for a moment, neither of you speaks.
the silence is comfortable.
it always has been.
“you know…” you begin, still looking down at the leaf. “you should visit new york sometime.”
he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “i don’t believe they’d want me there.”
you look back at him. “some people probably wouldn’t.”
he nods once.
he’d expected as much.
“but i’ll do.”
his expression changes ever so slightly. not surprise. something softer.
“and besides,” you continue, smiling now, “someone has to prove to you that traffic really is as bad as i said.”
that earns the smallest smile you’ve seen from him. “…i remain unconvinced.”
“then you’ll have to see it for yourself.”
he looks toward the shimmering light of the bifrost before returning his attention to you. “perhaps.”
it’s not a promise.
it isn’t a refusal, either.
somehow…
that’s enough.
heimdall clears his throat politely. “if your farewells have concluded.”
thor mutters something about dramatic siblings beneath his breath.
frigga hides a smile.
you step backward toward the light, your fingers tightening around the small gift in your hands. “…thank you.”
“for what?”
for staying.
you hesitate. “for helping me.”
his gaze lingers on yours for just a moment longer. “…safe travels.” the light engulfs you before either of you can answer anything else.
asgard begins to disappear beneath ribbons of gold.
the last thing you see is thor raising a hand in farewell.
frigga standing proudly beside him.
and loki…
still exactly where you’d left him.
this time, however…
he isn’t watching the bifrost.
he’s just watching you.
author’s note: it looks like i love inconclusive endings, doesn’t it? i’m so sorry guys, i don’t know how to stop it.