Disperse the Frosts of Dawn

"Let him sleep," is the reply, and Loki recognises the husky tones of Romanova.

"We should at least tell him he's got visitors."

At that Loki cracks an eye open, defying the thudding pain in his head just long enough to see Romanova flapping her hands dismissively. "They won't be here for a while yet," she says. "From the look of him he could do with a rest."

 Stark - for of course her conversational partner is Stark - wrinkles his brow in worry. "Are you sure he's just sleeping?" he says. "Not... plotting?" 

Romanova glances in Loki's direction and he quickly feigns sleep. "He's always plotting something," she  admits. Loki can hear the smile in her voice. "And he's woken up now."

Loki opens his eyes, lifting his head to glare at her. He immediately regrets it, as the movement sends a sharp burst of pain careening around the inside of his skull. "Oh," he moans. "I did not mean to fall asleep here. JARVIS, would you be a love and give Sleipnir a call?"

"Of course, Mister Liesmith," replies the AI smartly. "What would you like me to tell him?" 

Loki snuggles back into the comforting embrace of the Lokithrone, noting with some surprise that someone had draped a blanket over him while he had been sleeping. "Tell him where I am," he decides.  "And tell him that I am all right, and that he needn't worry, and that he is not under any circumstances to spend the entire day watching insipid reruns of Doctor Who."

"What?" cuts in Stark, sounding outraged. "You don't like Doctor Who? I knew you were evil!" 

"Tom Baker's hair is a crime against nature," says Loki in a low snarl. "Although," he adds, reluctantly, "the TARDIS is a rather charming shade of blue."

"I should build a TARDIS," says Stark wistfully.

"No," says Romanova. "No, you really shouldn't."

"Mister Liesmith, I should also inform you that you are due to have visitors in approximately twenty-five minutes," says JARVIS demurely. "They were going to visit you at your apartment, but have been redirected to the Tower."

"Is it Býleistr?" asks Loki hopefully.

There is a delicate pause, which Loki knows is entirely for effect, since the AI possesses an intellect vast enough to construct and deconstruct universes within a single second. "Indeed," JARVIS replies eventually. "Accompanied by King Helblindi, his consort, and a retinue of bodyguards and courtiers."

Loki's face drains of colour, settling at a pale mauve. "Fróði is coming?" he says, voice shrill with panic. "But - but I don't know what to say to him! What will he think of me? I'm not wearing any clothes!"

"Seriously?" interjects Stark, eyeing Loki's blanket-covered crotch distastefully.

Loki turns a scornful gaze upon the mortal. "I am wearing a loincloth, you ingrate," he says, and then hesitates. "But it is not... It is only my everyday wear, not something appropriate to greet the consort of a King with."

There is a silence, and then Stark says, slowly, "So you're fine with meeting the King of a foreign planet dressed only in your tighty-whiteys, but it's the King's consort that you're worried about?"

Loki sinks further into his blanket, face turning violet with embarrassment. "Well... I have not... That is to say, I have not yet met Fróði, and I wish to make a good impression."

He expects to hear more mocking at this, but Stark's expression actually softens and he turns away. "I hear you," says the mortal with feeling. "Meeting the in-laws is never easy. Especially when they've seen you drunk and naked on national television. No, don't ask," he says, fending off Loki's inchoate question before it has a chance to leave his lips. "Look, I can lend you a suit if it's that big a deal."

 "It would be no use," says Loki heavily. "I had hoped to wear true ceremonial garb of Jotunheim."

Romanova raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow. "By which you mean, still a loincloth. Just a slightly fancier loincloth."

"Of course," says Loki. "What else would I mean?"

Romanova and Stark share a slightly exasperated look, and then she turns back to him. "I think we can work something out," she says dryly.

And that is how Loki comes to greet his brothers and their retinue while garbed in a loincloth hastily fashioned from an Armani suit that will never be wearable again. Stark had been devastated. Loki and Romanova had been unsympathetic.

 "Hail, my liege," says Loki quietly, bowing his head.

"Ymir's tits, don't start with that garbage," says Helblindi, rolling his eyes, and with a complete lack of ceremony he strides forward and wraps Loki up in a tight embrace. Loki startles for a moment and then returns it with feeling.

"I had missed you," he says, muffled into Helblindi's shoulder.

"And I, you," says his brother gently. 

There is a tell-tale snuffling noise from behind them, and Loki snorts. "Oh, come on then, you big softy," he says, and Býleistr comes barrelling forward to embrace the both of them at once, nearly crushing Loki's ribs. The embrace proves to be too much for poor Býleistr, and he starts bawling in earnest, tears pouring down Loki's neck to form an uncomfortable pool in the hollow of his throat.

Loki pats him on the back in a paltry attempt at comfort. "There, there," he says uncomfortably.

Someone clears their throat, and Loki freezes. 

"Oh," says Helblindi, disentangling himself. "Loki, this is Fróði, my lover. Fróði, this is Loki, my charming dispossessed long-lost brother." 

"A pleasure," says Fróði throatily. His eyes are red and dark and deep, and his eyelashes are unusually long. His hands are calloused and he wears none of Helblindi's fine gold jewellery, but for a tiny anklet studded with green gems. He is at least three feet taller than Loki, and a couple of inches taller than Helblindi.

"Uhhh," says Loki, suddenly stuck for words. There is a long and aching pause in which he wonders which spell exactly would be the most efficient at causing the ground to swallow him whole.

Helblindi chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. "Might we enter, dear brother, and enjoy a spot of luncheon with you?"

"Are there pop-tarts?" asks Býleistr hopefully.

Loki stares at him.

Ye gods, he's created another Thor.

 "Indeed there are," he manages, finally loosening his tongue from where it had become inexplicably stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Even better, there is a substance called ice cream that I am eager to introduce you to. Though I am told it has little nutritional benefit."

 "Excellent," says Býleistr, sounding pleased.

 Loki glances at the small crowd of courtiers and lean, muscled bodyguards. "You can come too, if you like," he offers.

 They make their way to the guest kitchen, during which time Helblindi's gaze seems oddly fixated upon Loki's forehead. When they reach the kitchen, and Loki has all of his guests hunched into bar stools surrounding the kitchen island, Helblindi reaches out a hand and places it upon Loki's brow. A blue light flashes in Loki's vision and suddenly the headache that has plagued him for weeks is gone.

"Thank you," says Loki gratefully.

Helblindi only laughs."My dear," he says, "you should have told us sooner that your horns were coming through. I would have visited earlier." 

"My horns?" Loki blurts. "Whatever do you mean?"

Helblindi looks perplexed. "Why," he says, "you didn't know? You are of an age for it, and they are especially common amongst seiðmaðrs."

"You do not have horns," points out Loki somewhat helplessly.

Helblindi shrugs. "Nor do I have especially bushy eyebrows, or double-jointed hands," he replies, unfazed.

Loki rubs his forehead, and imagines that he can feel two nubs of bone sprouting forth. "Well," he says, and sniffs. "This is most irregular."

There is a loud crash from the direction of the fridge, and Býleistr emerges, shame-faced and covered in ice cream.

Loki sighs.