Loki knew, the moment Ikol retreated in a flurry of ruffled feathers and muffled profanity, that he was in deep shit. Not many things could fluster the bird and, after a couple quick glances confirming a lack of hammer-wielding L’oreal models, raging ex-lovers or magical prostitutes, the boy expected the worst.
The young god glanced up and down New York’s busy streets for any visible sign of impending, most-likely-apocalypic-doom level disturbances. After thirty seconds of careful observation, he had come to a safe conclusion that the bakery across the street was but a cover for something far, far more menancing. Forty-five seconds after that, Loki had constructed a relatively fail-proof plan to infiltrate the premise, disarm whatever weapon of mass chaos was on the menu for the afternoon, and grab a bite of the brightly advertised bacon brownies pictured on the glass window before the management realized what had occurred. It took him roughly fifteen counts to mentally and physically prepare himself.
Or, it would have if he hadn’t responded to a rather inconsiderate wolf whistle aimed in his direction.
If only Loki had realized prior to engaging a rather suspicious New Yorker in conversation that the inevitable horrible his feathered familiar sought to avoid was a person rather than an event.
The man was tall, more than surpassing Loki’s proud four-foot-four. He was garbed in red and black spandex, a fabric all but worshiped by the super-type (and cringed at by the rest of the planet’s population), weapons sticking out of every pocket in his utility belt and backpack; it was obvious that he was more than armed and most definitely dangerous.
“So, kid,” it took only these two words for Loki to figure out that this stranger wasn’t one for formality. “ You one of those ass-guardians? Wait. Hold up a sec; I’ve been practicing my Shakesperian…. Art thou a noble protector of arse?”
After three seconds of mild confusion and slow-blinking, Loki summoned the most appropriate response from his vast bank of SAT-level vocabulary: “….what?”
“Doth thou valiantly protect the tocks of butt…. Aw, fuck it. I failed American history for a reason,” The oddly-dressed less-than-super-smart super started doing what Loki could only assume was his own sign language variation consisting of several odd gestures to the young demi-god and the sky.
“If you’re asking if I can fly then no, sadly, I cannot. That’s more Thor’s forte than my own.”
“You speak English!” The masked man accused, complete with ye old finger of judgment.
“Aye.”
The man shrugged and offered his hand. “Name’s Wilson. Wade Wilson. But,” at this point the spandex-clad stranger leaned in and staged-whispered, “That’s kinda supposed to be a secret or something, so just call me Deadpool.”
Loki tentatively reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Loki. No alias required.”
“Loki?” Deadpool pulled his hand back before his young acquaintance could grasp it. If his face were visible, his eyebrows would have been in the heavens with surprise. “Like, badass horn helmet, Loki?”
“Er… yes?”
The mercenary looked him up and down, as if contemplating his sincerity. “You do sorta look like the old man. You like Loki Jr. or something? Loki’s Mini-me? I ain’t pulling your finger so forget it.”
“I am Loki.”
The man laughed with an overly-exaggerated brushing-off gesture. “You’re not Loki. He was taller. And he had a cape. Wait, a sec--- Where the hell is your cape?! Didn’t all you Ass Guards trade in your togas for capes or something? The fuck is yours at? Hell, where the fuck is mine at? Pops owes me at least a cape for messing up my face.”
Instead of answering all of Deadpool’s innane questions, Loki, for the sake of his sanity, opted for just the first one. “I have no cape. My hood more than suffices.”
Wilson shook his head disbelieving before grabbing the boy’s shoulders and shaking that almost violently. “You can't be an alien dude without a cape! Who are you? Talk!”
“I-I am still Loki.”
“You’re serious about that, eh?” Deadpool stood up and continued on with his spastic ramblings, either unaware or unbothered by the now terrified Asguardian before him. “Lil’ Loki. That’s cute. You’re so small and adorable, like Papa Loki. I bet daddy’s so proud. “
“Fathering myself is something I have yet to accomplish, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m just… youn—“
“Wait. If you’re his son, that makes me your big brother…..”
“No, I don’t think-“
“I HAVE A LITTLE BROTHER!” Deadpool screamed, earning surprised and concerned glances from the two tourists passing by. “This is great! I mean, I was gonna just pull a gift out of my ass and surprise M.C. Horny with hookers, but shopping with you sounds much more fun. And interesting. Building bromance is important for plot, I think. Whatever, just you and me, buddy! C’mon, bro-bro! Time to hit the mall!” Before Loki could even make sense of what was happening, he found himself being dragged away to Gods-know-where by a crazy armed-to-the-bone madman.
If this were any other city, pedestrians would be calling the police to report kidnapping, Loki mused. Damn New Yorkers for being so immune to non-building-destroying crime.
Damn them. Damn them all.
By the time Ikol had returned (roughly four hours, twelve minutes and thirty-nine seconds later), his young master had been dragged to a coat factory, two dress shops, the fire department, several fast food restaurants, and, currently, was standing outside an ‘adult’ toy store as Deadpool tried to convince the elderly owner that his companion was legal.
“Look at him, lady. He’s, like, seventy, except he’s short. It’s a god defect. Sorta like a growth defect, except Jesus. Jesus, baby! Jesus!”
If the store owner was more agile, she would have probably grabbed her broom and beat the mercenary out of the shop, Ikol figured from the way she was shaking her fist, Perching on Loki’s shoulder, he wondered whose brilliant idea was it to have a conservative woman in her late seventies working the sex shop.
“Where were you?” Loki murmured to the bird. “I could have used your assistance.”
“I’m a bird,” Ikol replied, doing the closest thing to a shrug, “We tend to be scatterbrained at times and there was a man throwing sesame seeds.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The magpie squawked. “You’re not supposed to.”
Loki was about to question the bird about his previous self’s relationship with the crazy man in red when Deadpool finally lost his argument with the old lady and noticed their new addition.
“Oh hello, there. Pa’lisha want a nigger?”
Bird and boy turned to each other, back, and sputtered in unison: "...What?"
“It’s the ghetto version of ‘Polly want a cracker’. Your bird’s black so I thought I’d be politically incorrect.” He shrugged. “I was hoping he'd spit out watermelon seeds and say 'that's racist' or something, but... Ah well. On the bright side, there's a sale at Vicky's secret. Onward! To the panties we march!”
Reluctantly following, Loki wondered if Leah would appreciate receiving a lacy gift in the near future.
“Ikol, I didn't think such a crazy man could possibly exist. Why is he even allowed out?"
“If you think he’s crazy, you really are a new breed of Loki. I like to think of him as charmingly chaotic. It's no surprise he think he's related to us.”
"Is he?"
"Who knows." Again with that bird shrug.
“Well, hopefully the red storm will rage elsewhere soon. Do you feel inclined to tell me what's the deal between us as I wait him out?”
“No, not particularly.”
Loki was wedged snuggly behind a variety of fake ferns in the front of a craft store. The moment Deadpool turned his attention to some celebrity cardboard cutout, he’d made a mad dash to the most concealed yet unnoticeable hiding spot the store had to offer, hence the ferns. They scratched him every time he turned, but, half an hour ago, he’d discovered that lying on his side was fairly comfortable and hadn’t moved much since. That was half an hour ago and the machete-wielding menace had neither left nor made any effort to look for him.
Just as Loki was debating whether he should attempt to make a break-away and hope he wasn't spotted, two terrifying familiar red-and-black boots found their way stopped in front of his face. Loki didn't breath as the plastic leaves directly in front of his face were moved aside to reveal a masked but obviously beaming Deadpool.
"It's time to go, bro. I got you a surprise!"
With very little tugging on his 'older brother's' part, Loki stood up and stretched, grateful to be out of that tight squeeze despite still being in the presence of the loon who maid him pick out gold emblem thongs for 'Big Loki' just that afternoon.
"C'mere, look! I got Papa Lokes these--" Deadpool pulled several Christmas ornaments out of his shopping cart. "--for his horns aaaand...." he guided Loki's eyes to what could possibly be the largest flower pot he'd ever seen. "This is for you! You know, since you liked being a plant, I thought you'd like to be one at home, too! See, I even got them to paint your name on it!"
This was both the most bizarre and sweetest gift Loki had ever received and he couldn't help but feel instantly touched.
As Deadpool babbled about all the plans in store for his older self, the demigod felt like he should probably tell his companion that there was only one Loki. But, really, how does one with the appearance and mindset of a pre-teen tell thirty(?) year-old man that he might just be his father?