"Good evening, my loyal subjects. It is with great pride that I stand before you today to announce that in just one day's time the nations of Earth have put aside their differences and united...under my command. It's the unspoken truth of humanity that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom hobbles you; diminishes your life's joy. You were made to be ruled. So I have come to help you fulfill your destiny."
The Avengers were ashes with no promise of a phoenix, a fond memory before they had a chance to become the idea Fury held with such esteem. But it was the United Nations' belief that since Fury's plan involving an extraterrestrial had led them to this very predicament — a coup staged by the unofficial, yet undisputed, crown prince of Asgard — that his follow-up idea to accept help from the Tesseract personified might not be in Earth's best interest. So, the UN took it upon itself to seek counsel elsewhere.
"I should have known it would be you. You never could resist a fight." Loki mused as he squared his shoulders to Erik. "Did you have to send them the coordinates to Genosha? Or are they keeping tabs on you?"
Not one for talk, this one. Loki remembered it with a fondness that had intensified from a simmer to a rolling boil. Desperate for a reaction, Loki brandished a knife — sleek, polished silver — and shifted when he noticed Erik's gaze change.
There's only a single tug — as subtle as a bite on the end of a line, but the bait is taken — and the moment Erik focuses a second too long on the clean metal dagger in the trickster's hand, the godling appears in an unraveling rush of air at Erik's back to set his hooks as deep as they will go.
"What did they promise you?" Loki derides with a smile that's all teeth. "A share of their world? A piece of it? A place in it?" The press of a new blade appeared near Erik's floating ribs, that frustratingly familiar material Loki knows Erik can't control. He's closing in on him now, artful in his approach, in how he reaches and blindly glides his free hand down the length of Erik's left forearm, the pad of his thumb passing over inked skin there. He clicks his tongue, derisive, as he whispers darkly in his ear, "As if it was theirs to give."
On cue, troops march in. Loki's chest is suddenly glittering with pricks of red light from the laser sights of so many guns all zeroed in on him. But Erik is between the assailants and the trickster and Loki's already promoted the green-silver blade from its place at Erik's back to resting across the mutant's throat.
They're close enough now to share a single crosshair yet they surprise each other with their stillness, despite Loki's pulse thundering, thrilled, behind his sternum and Erik's aura buzzing with anxious, pent-up energy.
Rebar projectiles are ascending all around them, aimed and ready, but Loki's focus is singularly on Erik's eyes, the barest hint of the blue of them that he can see from behind him. The orders being shouted fall not on deaf ears, but ignorant ones. Why would he — why would either of them — yield to the demands of ones so lesser?
"Join me." The weak breeze whispered in their ears, the late summer moon enriching Loki's pallor, his eyes blazing green torches in his face. "Genosha's border may remain, but her ideals will extend beyond them." The familiar click-snap of safeties being turned off drives a flood of endorphins, but Loki's concentration doesn't waver. "The whole realm could be a haven for mutants. And I could make it so."
'Fire.'
The onslaught of bullets is halted midair, every firearm in the room disassembled in an instant, and Loki's attentions realigns as he looses a wave of potent green sorcery upon the assailants, incinerating them where they stood without so much as a scream. The rebar is still twisting like serpents, rearing high, looking for a place to strike...
The blast of magic is draining and Loki crumbled an inch behind the other, exhausted by the effort, yet nourished by the sight of Erik, rigid and ready to pull the world apart at its seams with his bare hands. It was a shame, then, that Loki tipped into the vacuum created by the absence of threat so that he could swing around, flourish a hand, and then slide a lovely honed edge into Erik's stomach anyway.
The spread of red warmth is a flooring contrast to the icy lips that hush against Erik's temple, a breath as pure as a winter wind brushing along his skin. They land on their knees as one and Erik's jaw is a warm solid weight in Loki's palm. The godling is holding him upright as Erik's fingers crawl to the hilt of the blade to take the place of Loki's hands there, keeping it in. The damage done cannot be undone by removing the knife now; just the same, Loki is reconciling with a similar fact regarding Erik himself. But it was no mistake of Loki's that the dagger missed every major blood vessel and organ; he never misses.
"Something to remember me by." It's a whisper as weak as the flutter of Erik's pulse against Loki's fingers and the stolen kiss is reciprocity, a parting gift, like the dagger. A threat, or a promise, that Loki would return and reclaim what was rightfully his. Be it the knife or the mutant, but Loki couldn't untangle that thread of thought at the moment, and instead tore open a dimensional doorway and vanished from sight, just as reconnaissance personnel made their way to Magneto.
