The Gardener - I
Chapter 1 - Love-in-a-Mist
Pairing: Soft!Dark!Loki x Reader
Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!! This is a Dark!Loki fic hence it will explore sexual themes in later chapters and dark concepts. In this chapter there are mentions of death, murder, war, PTSD (untreated), and drinking.
Words: 3,060
Summary: Loki has run from himself his entire life. Settling in post-Second World War America, he finds peace in his garden, and finds the closest thing to a friend that he's had since the war. But how long can any of it last?
Set in an AU with Loki Series Loki.
...
"My grief lies all within,
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul."
- William Shakespeare, Richard II
...
Loki hummed as he dug. He knew it was a poor habit, though it soothed him. It started with the first trench he’d dug in the field of a foreign farmer as hellfire rained all around, and had followed him back home in 1945. He hummed as he handled the American soil just as he had the European dirt, humming as he dug up weeds, stubborn twisted stumps, or in this case, a shallow grave.
The dim gas lamp illuminating the dark was flickering by the time he’d finished. “Just in time,” he murmured as he drove the shovel into the dirt pile and pulled himself up out of the hole from the handle.
He sighed, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his handkerchief before rubbing it lazily above his brow and pushing the hair back from his forehead. His eyes fell to the cold ones on the ground, staring up at him in shock. They were always so shocked. As if death wasn’t always going to be the end.
He mirrored the expression, staring at the man below him, his own mouth falling open with a gasp. The sound cut into the thick, silent air of the early morning. His eyes searched the cold ones for a few moments before he smiled pitifully and shook his head. “I’m sorry chap. I really am,” Loki sighed before crouching down and pushing against the rigid body, rolling him into the hole.
There was a soft thud as the body settled in its final resting place, those cold eyes still wide and staring upwards. Stretching as he stood, Loki reached for the shovel and began throwing mounds of dirt back into the hole, covering the body. He started with the face first, the clumps of soil quickly hiding those eyes from view.
Just as the sun was beginning to rise Loki was replanting the rosebushes he’d temporarily displaced over the freshly turned dirt, scattering a few seeds on top for good measure. Finally finished he stood back to admire his work, noting the differences in the rose bushes complimented the arrangement of the lilac just beside them.
Placing the shovel back in his shed he moved inside to shower and prepare himself for a few hours of rest.
Taking off his soiled shirt in the bathroom, he flipped open his pocket watch to see it was a few minutes past five. He smiled to himself as he thought of you asleep, your lovely skin wrapped in the soft cotton of your sheets. It was all over now- he’d done the work to ensure you’d see him how you deserved to. Nothing threatened to keep you from him now. His sweet girl would belong to him forever.
Grinning to himself he filled a basin with water and got to work washing the dirt and blood from his body.
...
He used to have tea with Hattie every second afternoon.
It started a few months after he’d moved to New Haven in the spring of ’47. He’d had it with the bureaucracy of his former life. It all seemed so pointless once he came home.
Selling most of his earthly possessions he sailed to America and bought a lovely home on a large plot land in a small community, close to the heart of New Haven. The garden needed work but he had idle hands and quickly took to the hobby.
Soon he’d cultivated an escape- the trees, bushes, flowers all closed him off from the outside world and prying eyes. By June he’d had neighbours or passersby knocking on his door to give their compliments, eager to shake the calloused hand that brought it all to life. They were always surprised to learn it was his doing, the women particularly so once they discovered he kept no wife.
Though he’d indulged with some, nothing was ever truly real, and he found himself quite alone at times, trembling under the weight of his memories. The sounds always came first. The cries of his friends as they shook in the cold grip of death, the sharp pops of bullets from the hundreds of guns or the deafening blow of shells, mines, and grenades as they combusted. He’d clamp his hands over his ears, every muscle in his body clenched as he held onto himself until the silence returned.
One evening, after a particularly sour stream of recollections he’d decided to step to the public house a few blocks away. He made his way down the street, his hands in his pockets as he strolled in the stifling heat of the late August evening.
“Hey you!” He was accosted by a sharp voice. Turning to his neighbour’s house he saw an old woman on the porch illuminated by the yellow lamp on the table in front of her. He stepped closer, an eyebrow raised as he held a finger to his chest.
“Yeah you! String bean! Come here,” she waved at him with the cane in her right hand. He stepped up her long path, trying his best to morph his features into something that seemed friendly.
“Hello madam,” he said once he’d reached the bottom step of her porch. “May I help you? I believe I’m your neighbour.”
“A brit huh? Come up here, have a drink with me.” She motioned to the empty seat beside her.
“My apologies but it’s quite late for that isn’t it? Perhaps I could return tomorrow at a more reasonable hour.” He looked to her, hoping she’d agree so he could continue to his destination and consume enough cheap liquor to bring on a silent sleep.
“I’ll probably be dead tomorrow. Come sit.”
He let out an uncomfortable breath before moving up the steps to sit across from her. She was ancient, her little body curled over itself though her eyes were bright. She poured them both a glass of bourbon.
“Jesus- you’re a good looking kid. Long hair though. What’s your name string bean?” She motioned at him with her glass in hand, the liquid coming up to the brim with the movement.
“Loki. It’s nice to meet you,” he nodded at her. “And you are?”
“Hattie. Tell me Loki, when’s the last time you slept?”
He laughed lightly. “I suppose I’m still acclimatising,” he gently said before taking a sip of bourbon. It was delightful.
“I’ve got a good nose for bullshit string bean,” she warned. “Who did you serve with?”
He felt his lips set in a thin line. “Her Majesty’s Second Army.”
“Jesus. So you saw the worst of it,” she stated, pouring more bourbon in his glass.
He nodded and subconsciously his fingers dug into the old scar in his leg, the pain steeling him.
“You want to talk about it?” She asked, eyeing him as she settled back in her chair.
“No.” He downed half of what she’d given him.
“Can you change the record?” She lazily motioned to the stack behind her.
He nodded, stepping over to the pile and rummaging through. He quickly found one, smiling to himself as he slipped the vinyl from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable, dropping the needle before settling back in his seat.
The smooth voice of Sarah Vaughan quickly filled the space, and Hattie’s little mouth twisted upwards. “A true romantic. Wouldn’t have guessed.”
He titled his glass towards her, and the two of them sat in silence as they enjoyed record after record and most of the bourbon. That night he slept dreamless for the first time since the war.
After that he’d started coming around Hattie’s regularly for tea though she’d never take a sip of the stuff, insisting he instead fill her cup with the bourbon she seemingly always had handy. He’d help her with little repairs around the house and she’d tell him stories of her life once she’d had enough drink to loosen her lips. Every now and then he’d share little moments of his life though she never pushed, never pried.
Every now and then he’d help her over to his garden so he could show her whatever new addition he’d been working on. In the winter he’d shovel her walk and they’d sit inside, watching the snow fall as the various maids she kept prattled around her, eyeing him every now and then.
She’d often talk of her grand niece, her only remaining family, off in Malaysia on some photography expedition. “You’d like her,” Hattie would say, “she’s too good for you though. Too good for anyone, really.”
He’d smile and nod before quickly changing the subject, seeing the pain in Hattie’s eyes as she spoke of someone she loved so far away.
In January after shovelling Hattie’s walk Loki came inside to see her grinning by the fire, a letter in her lap.
“What’s that?” He asked, shaking the snow off his coat before hanging it on the hook by the door.
“A damn good read,” she said, folding it back up. “My grand niece is coming to visit. She’ll be here in the summer.”
He smiled at her, happy to see his friend looking forward to something other than opening a fresh bottle for once.
...
It was mid April when he got the knock at his door, at the odd time of day. He had been tending to some seedlings, readying the Nigella he’d ordered by mail back in the winter.
Opening the door to the cool early morning air, one of Hattie’s maids stood there, eyes red and tired. He knew her well- Mary, an older, stern woman with a soft spot for Hattie. Her hands were white where she gripped her coat closed. His heart dropped when he saw her face, but he said nothing. He waited for her to say it.
“I’m so sorry. I went to wake her this morning, and she-“ she took a shaky breath, “she’s gone. Miss Hattie’s gone. I thought you should know. She’d want you to know.”
He blinked, willing the tears to reabsorb before sliding his mask back into place. He gave her a solemn smile, bowing his head. “I understand. Thank you for taking the time to tell me. Please let me know if there’s anything I may do to help.”
She left soon after that, informing him of the arrangements being made for the ceremony.
Closing the door, he rested his back against the firm, carved wood, slowly sinking to the floor as the familiar sounds roared in his ears.
The next few weeks blurred together. Of course he made it to Hattie’s funeral physically, but mentally he was far from it. He stood at the back of the funeral home on wavering feet, the seemingly perpetual stupor he’d been drinking himself into dulling all sensation, all sound. He decided she’d have hated this, the small room littered with crying acquaintances and neighbours.
Walking up to the closed casket, he smoothed his hand over the polished wood. “Goodbye old girl,” he slurred, “s-sorry.” He turned slowly, the room spinning as he made his way outside before promptly throwing up on the crabgrass.
...
Eventually he woke sober one morning, the light streaming through his window burning the retinas behind his eyelids. He pulled himself off the floor, gagging at his own stench. He crawled to the bath and threw himself in, turning on the water. He peeled his clothes off his body, throwing them in a heap by the door.
He scrubbed his skin roughly, bringing the soap through his matted hair and newly grown beard. If he tried, he could faintly remember the sickening smell of the pubs he visited, and the feel of his body hitting the pavement once he was inevitably thrown out. He shuddered then submerged himself, coming out of the water a tad more human.
Draining the embarrassingly dirty water he dried himself off then gathered his soiled clothes. First removing his pocket watch, he threw them in the bin outside, holding the towel around his waist. He stepped back in and dressed, gently running a comb through his long, inky locks, eventually turning to cutting about an inch of it off due to the many knots and matts. He stood in front of the mirror and tilted his head at the deathly pale form there, eyes sunken and dark. He touched his face, sighing, before dressing in his now slightly baggy clothes. He shaved then prepared himself a proper meal and drained several glasses of water.
He weakly made his way to his study, the glorious view of his garden before him. There was a lot of work to do. Looking down at the table before him his heart fell at the sight of the dead Nigellas. He closed his eyes and took a breath- no need to dwell on it now. It’s something to do. Something to keep going for.
Just then he heard a loud crash outside. He quickly found his way outside to see a commotion in front of Hattie’s house. There seemed to be fragmented pieces of mirror on the ground, reflecting the clear blue sky up above. Two men stood on either side of the mess, shouting at each other. He furrowed his brow- who gave them permission to move things? As far as he knew she’d left her entire estate to her grand niece.
He started to make his way over then stopped dead in his tracks. A woman- a beautiful, young woman came out to stand before the arguing movers, her hands on her hips. “Boys it’s fine! I don’t care whose fault it was, it’s alright. Just please pick up the pieces.” You said loud enough for Loki to hear.
The movers immediately went quiet and must have gotten to work cleaning the mess but Loki didn’t see them- his eyes were trained on you. You were lovely in every sense of the word, and his mouth went dry. Hattie was right. You were too good for him. Too good for anyone, really.
You turned and locked your eyes with his- god your eyes! His heart squeezed when you smiled at him, that smile- unlike any he’d seen before, even those conjured up in his dreams. You waved and he felt himself blush. Really. He blushed. He gave you a small bow then quickly turned back up the path to his house, chastising himself for acting like a shy schoolboy.
...
He got the garden back to its former glory in a week. He weeded, trimmed, and pruned the space. He grew new seedlings- peonies this time, tending to the little plants carefully each day. He hadn’t made an effort to see you since last week, his pulse unsteady each time he remembered your smile.
It was early Friday afternoon when he faintly heard the sound of a knock on the front door from his chaise in the garden. He made his way to the side path, winding through the various trees and bushes towards the front of the house. He stopped when he saw you, stuck deciding whether or not he should pretend to be out.
Just then your head turned and you faced him, your eyes meeting through the carefully tended rose bushes. You smiled that smile, such a brilliant thing. “Hi!”
He groaned internally, how could a voice be so lovely? “Hello,” he said as he continued his way towards you.
“Are you Loki?” You asked, stepping towards him.
“Yes,” he said, subtly wiping his suddenly clammy hands on his trousers. “You must be Hattie’s niece, she spoke of you often.”
He extended his hand and you slipped your fingers in his, your warm, gentle touch bringing an inaudible gasp from his lips. You introduced yourself, “my Great Aunt spoke of you in her letters. She called you string bean,” your eyes widened at that and you clapped a hand over your mouth. “Sorry!”
He chuckled, “not to worry. She regularly said it to my face.”
You smiled, though the sadness showed through. “That was Hattie. Not afraid to tell you what’s what.”
He nodded. “Do you want to come back for some tea?” He offered, praying he sounded casual.
“I’d love to,” you said, stepping closer to him. “But maybe something stronger?”
He smiled and turned, leading you down the path. “How’s bourbon?”
“Perfect.”
...
“I’m so sorry I didn’t see you at the funeral. I’d just come in that day and got there by the time you’d left. But thank you for coming,” you fiddled with the glass of bourbon in your hands. “Thank you for being a friend to my great aunt.”
“I was lucky to call her my friend. I was lucky to know her at all.” Loki said, his eyes on the budding lilies, grateful you hadn’t seen him in the state he’d been in. He doubted you’d be here if you had.
You gently brought your hand over his on the small wooden table. His eyes slipped closed for a second. He wanted to take it in his and bring it closer to him so he could memorise it, memorise every inch of you.
“So what’s a brit doing in Conneticut?” You said, smiling at him as you brought your hand back to your glass to take a swig.
The two of you fell into an easy conversation after that, talking until the sun hung low in the sky. He walked you back down the path to the front of the house, slowly walking side by side.
“You have the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” you said with a shy smile.
“Thank you. Feel free to come by and enjoy it anytime,” he replied, softly smiling back.
You’d reached the end of the path then quickly turned to hug him tightly. He was shocked for a moment, his body stiffening as he felt your arms around him before bringing his own behind you to hug you back. He gently breathed in your scent, warm and spicy yet fresh, with just a hint of the bourbon. That combined with the feel of you pressed against him was overwhelming.
Before he knew what was happening you’d pulled back, releasing him from the hug. “How’s tomorrow?” You asked, smiling again.
“Lovely,” he smiled back, finding himself out of breath. “Tomorrow’s lovely.”
Chapter II here.
A/N: Should I be starting something new when I have 2+ ongoing fics? Probably not. Regardless, here it is! I hope you like it- I'm hoping to release chapters weekly. Thank you for reading!!