Aesir (and apparently Jotun) could survive longer in the vacuum of space than most other species, something Loki was intimately familiar with. It was something he hoped he could go his long life without ever experiencing it again, but apparently that was too much to ask. He isn't sure when the endless tumbling turned to something solid beneath him. Perhaps he's finally found the limit and died. The all-encompassing pain certainly suggests he has landed in Hel. The dirty popcorn ceiling he sees when he manages to crack his eyes open is a surprise, though. Even if the décor isn't what he expected, the musty air filling his mouth and lungs is one of the sweetest things he's ever tasted.
Clint's life ended in an instant. An apparently literal snap of the fingers.
And when he'd finally managed to get hold of someone--Natasha, thank god--he learned the details of what had happened to his family. And to Loki. According to Thor, dead by the hands of Thanos before he ever set foot on Earth.
It didn't take long to leave everything behind and start a new life. Nat could only say so much, and while she's better, will always be better, at all the spy shit, she's not the only one who knows how to disappear.
So maybe it's fate, or magic, or providence, or sheer stupid fucking luck that when a black-clad figure, out to do his grim work, passes over rooftops in this particular city in this particular part of the world, he is just aware enough of what's below him to nearly fall flat on his face. Because that isn't some poor drunk with his lights punched out, no homeless trying to find a place to lay his head, but Loki.
Or what looks like Loki. Loki, who he hasn't seen since he and Thor and some crazed looking hot chick with wicked horns stepped out of nowhere after Odin died(? he is still unclear on the details, frankly), on his god damn land, and the light show of the bifrost burnt a pattern into the grass.
There is a long moment when he stands over the still (barely) breathing body and wonders if this is it, if this is the moment he's finally lost his mind.
The body's as fucking heavy as he remembers, and unfairly long and gangly, when he decides to scrub the mission for tonight and carry this possibly fake son of a bitch all the way to his temporary safehouse without alerting anyone. If this is an illusion, it's a good one.
There are injuries to tend to, but none more apparent than the large, ugly bruise worked around his neck. There's only so much he can do without a hospital, but so long as he can breathe...that's going to have to be good enough.
Clint sits beside the bed, arms crossed, and waits. It's a longer wait than he'd like. But eventually Loki, or the thing that looks like Loki, wakes. He stays still. Doesn't want to fill himself with too much hope on hope. Waits, watches.
Loki blinks slowly, trying to find something that will clue him in to his location with a bit more specificity than "Hel, probably." The ceiling offers no more clues, so slowly and he turns his head to the side. Pain lances through his neck and down his spine like hot needles, stopping him from completing the motion with a muffled whimper, but it's enough that he can make out the figure sitting next to him.
The assumption that he's died and gone to Hel is thrown out in an instant, because surely if Clint were to die he would go to Valhalla. Or whatever passed for it for humans.
He opens his mouth forms the shape of his beloved's name on his lips, but all that comes out is a whisper and more pain. Different pain, a burning deep in his throat that speaks to deep, unhealed damage. Damage that may never heal given how long he floated in the void. Green eyes widen as he struggles to sit up, blankets and his own ruined body fighting him every step of the way.
If it's not Loki, it's a very thorough reproduction. There's no voice...but given the injuries, that's not exactly surprising. He can see the way Loki's mouth moves, an attempt to say his name. And then the panic sparks quick and bright, and Clint can't just sit there and be passive.
Either it's his partner or it's something close enough that he's not sure he cares that it isn't.
He jumps up from his seat and sets a hand at Loki's chest. "Don't. You're still healing from whatever the fuck happened to you. Just...take it easy."
Almost like putting a blanket over a songbird's cage, the instant Clint's hand weighs on his chest, Loki calms down. He doesn't settle in the bed, rather as all his muscles loosen at once causing him to collapse down.
The entire time his eyes never leave Clint's face. There's something there that wasn't before, something hard and damaged, but Loki can't find it in him to care at the moment. It's Clint, one of his two loves. If he's there then everything will at least be a little bit okay.
Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and Loki can't quite find the energy or desire to stop them from welling up. A hand comes up to rest on the one still on his chest, needing to feel for certain that it's real.
"...I can't tell you it'll be okay. I don't even know if you're really you. Because you died. I was told Loki died." Clint keeps his hand where it's at, but he turns his face away. "I don't know what to believe. Found you in an alley, unconscious."
Loki opens his mouth to speak again, but the burning in his throat reminds him of the current issues with that. Turning his head gently, he scans the room and eventually finds a pad of paper laying on the bedside table. He squeezes Clint's hand with as much strength as he can muster (not much) to get his attention then nods to indicate it and the pen laying by it's side.
...Right, pen and paper. Easiest way to communicate at the moment. Other than texting, and he's not sure if a phone survives magical and space travel like that. Clint hands the items over. "I'll get you some water, too, if you think you can drink it."
Loki shakes his head at the offer of water. He knows he'll need to drink some eventually, but trying to talk has his throat inflamed and the idea of drinking sounds like torture at the moment.
Instead he write. It's shaky, given his position and lack of strength, but still legible.
"We're in Venezuela right now. And you've...missed a lot. Been over a year since I've seen you, for one." Even if Loki doesn't want a drink right now, Clint has the urge to move, even if just to get up and grab a water bottle to crack open and sit by the bed.
"I need to know you're really you. I know that's paranoid, but...something only my Loki would know."
Venezuela? Is Clint on a mission? He's supposed to be retired, but that's hardly stopped him in the past. They could be on vacation, but this room hardly seems like a resort location. He's writing before Clint even starts asking for proof of his identity, too many questions swirling in his head. Perhaps one of them would count for the proof he wants.
Clint stills. Obviously, obviously if this is really Loki, he'd be concerned about the family. But he shakes his head. It's not enough. "I need to know. I need something concrete."
Loki furrows his brows in concern. Skepticism is understandable, especially given that he's apparently been 'dead' for over a year, but there's something else there. A paranoia and sadness that worries him deeply.
He thinks. There are many things he would probably know about Clint, but what is good enough to convince him when even the knowledge of their family isn't enough? Normally he would pull a trinket out of his pocket dimension, but his magic has long since left him, the energy stolen by his body's need to survive.
Plenty of people know that Loki's alive, now, and living with the Bartons. Ones he knows and, to some extent, trusts, but it's not unlikely that people that might want to do him harm might have found out.
Who would know about Lila's old curtains in the loft? When she'd grown out of the bright floral design and wanted something 'more mature'. And Loki couldn't bear to see it go and took it for himself to adorn the window of the loft.
The memory hits him like a truck, and he has to suddenly sit back down before he collapses entirely from it. "You sentimentalist," he croaks out before he can't trust his own voice anymore.
Casting aside the paper and pen, Loki reaches out to Clint. He doesn't care if he's injured, he doesn't care if it hurts, he needs to feel his arms around him. Needs it more than breathing, more than anything.
There isn't much moisture left in his body, but what little there is seems to go to the tears slipping quietly down his cheeks.
It's Loki. It has to be. He sees Loki reaching, and he slides onto the bed to make it easier to hold Loki, tight, no matter what might hurt. He'll have to explain, but he can't, can't get it out right now. Have to hold on to the only thing that matters, right in front of him.
It does hurt. Everything. The shifting as Clint slides onto the bed, the pressure of his arms around Loki, but he doesn't care. Floating in the void of space is a strange mixture of numbness and pain. Eventually it seems to seep into you, carving out who you were and leaving only empty nothingness in it's place. This, the pain, the warmth, the sensation of love that radiates around them, fills that void. For the first time since Thanos' ship loomed over the Statesman, he feels a small measure of happiness.
Loki can't get his arms around Clint, so he settles for grasping the front of his shirt. He's sure the human can feel the slight tremble to his frame, but it doesn't matter. Clint has seen him in worse states.
Whereas Loki has perhaps not seen Clint in quite this state. "I'm not letting you out of my sight," he says with a voice thick with emotion. "Not again. Don't ever leave me again."
Loki shakes his head, his grip tightening just a little. He would fight the universe itself to stay with him from now until the human draws his final breath.
He isn't sure how long they stay like that, all time feels weird after a stay in the void, especially one as long as a year. Eventually he scoots back just enough to be able to look at Clint's face and give him a weak smile.
Hugging is good, of course. But at Loki's shaky little smile, he has to take his partner gently by the face and kiss him. That alone threatens to undo Clint. It's been...too long.
"You're the first bit of good news I've had in a year."
Weak as he is, Loki does his best to return the kiss. He's more relaxed than he has been in a very long time, but at Clint's words, his eyebrows draw together again. His mind starts turning, taking in everything from the few minutes he's been conscious.
Venezuela. The dirty room, Clint's demeanor.
The silence of the space they're in.
Fast as he can, Loki reaches back to grab the pad of paper he'd been writing on earlier. He holds it up to Clint and taps insistently at something already written there.
He takes Loki's hands, lowers them, the pad and the pen and just tries to hold on. To Loki, to this moment, to himself.
"They're gone." And that's going to make Loki panic and cry and he knows, he knows, but they have to get through this. "Not dead, not...not really, at least we don't think so. More that they've just stopped existing."
Breathe. Breathe. He isn't looking at Loki, more through him, eyes settled somewhere around the godling's chest. "Thanos got all the Stones. Clicked his fingers, and in an instant, half of all life in the universe just dissolved into dust. I turned my back for a second, and they were all--"
He finally lets go of Loki's hands. In case he needs to write something more. "That was a year ago."
Loki remembers one thing from the void. A strange wash of energy that passed over him like a wave. It felt foreign, yet somehow so familiar. At the time he thought little of it. He thought little at all, actually. But now his stomach drops as he realizes with sickening revelation what that sensation was.
Half of all life. Gone. Three-fifths, in Loki's case.
A burning forms in his chest that he knows isn't from any of his physical injuries as he thinks about them, gone. Taken in there prime of their lives. He knew he would outlive them all, but that always came with the comfort of actually getting to see them live, that when their time came they would have had happy and full lives. Not this.
He thinks about Clint on the homestead. Playing or eating or even just existing until suddenly all went quiet. Clint, trying to find them, learning where they went, that they weren't coming back. Loki knows he should ask about Asgard, about Thor, but right now all he can focus on is the burning pit of too many emotions in his chest.
Trembling even harder now, he buries his face in Clint's chest again and lets out a strangled cry. It hurts and he's pretty sure he can taste blood, but it doesn't matter. The physical pain is nothing.
He stays there, as is, letting Loki get it out even if it hurts, because nothing could hurt worse. "I got hold of Tasha; she came and got me. Caught me up on what was happening. Heard about you, in time."
Had what could be called a breakdown for an amount of time he doesn't necessarily want to disclose.
Loki pulls himself impossibly closer to Clint, clinging to the one solid thing apparently left to him. What kind of cruel joke is this? He's finally found happiness, only to have it ripped away. Again.
Clint. Alone. Well, not alone, with Natasha, but still without his family. Suffering through that, then learning Loki's (supposed) fate. Fuck.
"S-Sorry." It's barely a whisper. Whispering still hurts, but not as much. Clint probably doesn't want him injuring himself more, but Loki needs to say it. "Tried to stop him."
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cuttingremark) wrote2023-01-25 07:40 am
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And when he'd finally managed to get hold of someone--Natasha, thank god--he learned the details of what had happened to his family. And to Loki. According to Thor, dead by the hands of Thanos before he ever set foot on Earth.
It didn't take long to leave everything behind and start a new life. Nat could only say so much, and while she's better, will always be better, at all the spy shit, she's not the only one who knows how to disappear.
So maybe it's fate, or magic, or providence, or sheer stupid fucking luck that when a black-clad figure, out to do his grim work, passes over rooftops in this particular city in this particular part of the world, he is just aware enough of what's below him to nearly fall flat on his face. Because that isn't some poor drunk with his lights punched out, no homeless trying to find a place to lay his head, but Loki.
Or what looks like Loki. Loki, who he hasn't seen since he and Thor and some crazed looking hot chick with wicked horns stepped out of nowhere after Odin died(? he is still unclear on the details, frankly), on his god damn land, and the light show of the bifrost burnt a pattern into the grass.
There is a long moment when he stands over the still (barely) breathing body and wonders if this is it, if this is the moment he's finally lost his mind.
The body's as fucking heavy as he remembers, and unfairly long and gangly, when he decides to scrub the mission for tonight and carry this possibly fake son of a bitch all the way to his temporary safehouse without alerting anyone. If this is an illusion, it's a good one.
There are injuries to tend to, but none more apparent than the large, ugly bruise worked around his neck. There's only so much he can do without a hospital, but so long as he can breathe...that's going to have to be good enough.
Clint sits beside the bed, arms crossed, and waits. It's a longer wait than he'd like. But eventually Loki, or the thing that looks like Loki, wakes. He stays still. Doesn't want to fill himself with too much hope on hope. Waits, watches.
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The assumption that he's died and gone to Hel is thrown out in an instant, because surely if Clint were to die he would go to Valhalla. Or whatever passed for it for humans.
He opens his mouth forms the shape of his beloved's name on his lips, but all that comes out is a whisper and more pain. Different pain, a burning deep in his throat that speaks to deep, unhealed damage. Damage that may never heal given how long he floated in the void. Green eyes widen as he struggles to sit up, blankets and his own ruined body fighting him every step of the way.
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Either it's his partner or it's something close enough that he's not sure he cares that it isn't.
He jumps up from his seat and sets a hand at Loki's chest. "Don't. You're still healing from whatever the fuck happened to you. Just...take it easy."
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The entire time his eyes never leave Clint's face. There's something there that wasn't before, something hard and damaged, but Loki can't find it in him to care at the moment. It's Clint, one of his two loves. If he's there then everything will at least be a little bit okay.
Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and Loki can't quite find the energy or desire to stop them from welling up. A hand comes up to rest on the one still on his chest, needing to feel for certain that it's real.
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Instead he write. It's shaky, given his position and lack of strength, but still legible.
Thought I died too. Where are we?
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"I need to know you're really you. I know that's paranoid, but...something only my Loki would know."
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Where Laura? Kids?
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He thinks. There are many things he would probably know about Clint, but what is good enough to convince him when even the knowledge of their family isn't enough? Normally he would pull a trinket out of his pocket dimension, but his magic has long since left him, the energy stolen by his body's need to survive.
Wait. Trinket.
Are Lila's curtains still in my loft?
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Who would know about Lila's old curtains in the loft? When she'd grown out of the bright floral design and wanted something 'more mature'. And Loki couldn't bear to see it go and took it for himself to adorn the window of the loft.
The memory hits him like a truck, and he has to suddenly sit back down before he collapses entirely from it. "You sentimentalist," he croaks out before he can't trust his own voice anymore.
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There isn't much moisture left in his body, but what little there is seems to go to the tears slipping quietly down his cheeks.
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Loki can't get his arms around Clint, so he settles for grasping the front of his shirt. He's sure the human can feel the slight tremble to his frame, but it doesn't matter. Clint has seen him in worse states.
Well, at least emotionally speaking.
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He isn't sure how long they stay like that, all time feels weird after a stay in the void, especially one as long as a year. Eventually he scoots back just enough to be able to look at Clint's face and give him a weak smile.
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"You're the first bit of good news I've had in a year."
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Venezuela. The dirty room, Clint's demeanor.
The silence of the space they're in.
Fast as he can, Loki reaches back to grab the pad of paper he'd been writing on earlier. He holds it up to Clint and taps insistently at something already written there.
Where Laura? Kids?
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"They're gone." And that's going to make Loki panic and cry and he knows, he knows, but they have to get through this. "Not dead, not...not really, at least we don't think so. More that they've just stopped existing."
Breathe. Breathe. He isn't looking at Loki, more through him, eyes settled somewhere around the godling's chest. "Thanos got all the Stones. Clicked his fingers, and in an instant, half of all life in the universe just dissolved into dust. I turned my back for a second, and they were all--"
He finally lets go of Loki's hands. In case he needs to write something more. "That was a year ago."
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Loki remembers one thing from the void. A strange wash of energy that passed over him like a wave. It felt foreign, yet somehow so familiar. At the time he thought little of it. He thought little at all, actually. But now his stomach drops as he realizes with sickening revelation what that sensation was.
Half of all life. Gone. Three-fifths, in Loki's case.
A burning forms in his chest that he knows isn't from any of his physical injuries as he thinks about them, gone. Taken in there prime of their lives. He knew he would outlive them all, but that always came with the comfort of actually getting to see them live, that when their time came they would have had happy and full lives. Not this.
He thinks about Clint on the homestead. Playing or eating or even just existing until suddenly all went quiet. Clint, trying to find them, learning where they went, that they weren't coming back. Loki knows he should ask about Asgard, about Thor, but right now all he can focus on is the burning pit of too many emotions in his chest.
Trembling even harder now, he buries his face in Clint's chest again and lets out a strangled cry. It hurts and he's pretty sure he can taste blood, but it doesn't matter. The physical pain is nothing.
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He stays there, as is, letting Loki get it out even if it hurts, because nothing could hurt worse. "I got hold of Tasha; she came and got me. Caught me up on what was happening. Heard about you, in time."
Had what could be called a breakdown for an amount of time he doesn't necessarily want to disclose.
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Loki pulls himself impossibly closer to Clint, clinging to the one solid thing apparently left to him. What kind of cruel joke is this? He's finally found happiness, only to have it ripped away. Again.
Clint. Alone. Well, not alone, with Natasha, but still without his family. Suffering through that, then learning Loki's (supposed) fate. Fuck.
"S-Sorry." It's barely a whisper. Whispering still hurts, but not as much. Clint probably doesn't want him injuring himself more, but Loki needs to say it. "Tried to stop him."
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