StrangeFrost
Loki hadn’t planned to be in the Sanctum tonight. He rarely visited unless summoned, and even then, he came begrudgingly, making it a point to stay just long enough to fulfill whatever favor Strange demanded of him. Tonight, though, the air had felt wrong, thick with something unspoken that tugged at him from the realms beyond. It was an urge he couldn't shake off, like a string pulling him through space until he found himself wandering the winding corridors of the Sanctum.
He heard it again—the sickening, wet sound of retching. He’d seen Strange bruised and bloodied, slinging spells with hands shaking from exertion, but this was different. This wasn’t the self-assured Sorcerer Supreme he knew. This was something fractured.
Loki’s steps quickened. He didn’t bother masking the soft thud of his boots against the stone floor; Strange was in no condition to notice his approach. And then he saw him, the once-imposing figure of Doctor Stephen Strange brought low, crumpled on the floor with one hand braced weakly against the wall and the other grasping desperately at his stomach as if he could physically will himself to stop.
A frail gasp tore from Strange’s lips as another wave of nausea hit, wrenching a painful sound from his throat. Loki’s heart, usually encased in a shell of hardened indifference, faltered for a beat. The god couldn’t explain it; he was unaccustomed to feeling any sympathy, especially for someone like Strange, but here he was, stepping closer.
“Strange,” he said, his voice soft and cautious.
Strange didn’t respond, barely seeming to register that anyone was there at all. Loki's voice, usually so sharp and cutting, felt foreign to his own ears, wavering as he watched Strange fight his own body, trapped in a moment of helplessness he clearly loathed.
“Doctor?” Loki crouched, his hand hovering in the air, unsure whether to offer it. The man before him looked like a stranger—gone was the arrogant, powerful sorcerer. What remained was a broken shell, gasping through waves of nausea, as if every retch stripped away another layer of his pride.
Strange managed to look up, though his vision was hazy, his skin damp with a sheen of cold sweat. “Loki…” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper, hoarse and raw. He clutched at his stomach, shivering, forcing himself to look away as another spasm overtook him.
Loki clenched his jaw, watching as Strange’s hands, usually so steady and composed, shook violently. “How long has this been happening?” he asked, the words sharper than he intended, tempered by an edge of worry he tried to mask.
Strange swallowed, his face contorting in pain as he struggled to force words out between his labored breaths. “Does it… matter?” He closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the cold stone wall. He looked defeated, a shell of his former self.
“It matters if it’s killing you,” Loki murmured, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. He didn’t wait for Strange’s consent; he gently laid a hand on Strange’s shoulder, feeling the heat radiate through the fabric, an indication of the fever Strange was likely trying to ignore.
Strange shivered beneath the touch, instinctively recoiling before seeming to realize it was Loki beside him. He slumped back, his resistance crumbling. “I’ve been… pushing myself,” he confessed, eyes fixed on some distant point as if he couldn’t bear to meet Loki’s gaze. “There’s always some threat, some duty… it doesn’t stop, Loki. I can’t afford to stop.”
Loki’s lips pressed into a thin line. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the weight of expectations, the need to prove oneself. He watched Strange, a faint bitterness blooming in his chest. For all his arrogance, Strange was as trapped by duty as Loki had been by his title, bound to powers that would drain him dry if he let them.
“Letting yourself be destroyed by obligation isn’t bravery. It’s foolishness,” Loki said, though his voice was devoid of its usual bite. Strange’s face twisted, whether in anger or shame, Loki couldn’t tell, but he continued. “Whatever you think you’re protecting, whatever burden you think only you can bear… it isn’t worth your life, Strange.”
Strange shook his head, his expression bleak, as if Loki’s words had pierced him in a way he wasn’t ready to confront. “I don’t have… I don’t have that luxury.” His voice cracked on the words, the admission sounding raw, as if it had been buried for far too long. “People depend on me… and I—” His voice caught as he choked on his own words, squeezing his eyes shut as if to ward off whatever thoughts were plaguing him. “I can’t afford weakness.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Loki whispered, his words gentler than any comfort he’d ever offered before.
Strange trembled, his shoulders rising and falling with his labored breaths, clearly on the edge of something far darker than simple exhaustion. Loki, without fully understanding why, extended his arm to support him, keeping him grounded as another spasm of nausea took over.
Loki sat in silence as Strange wrestled with the storm within him. When the convulsions finally subsided, Strange was left shivering, his face pale, his breath coming in shallow, unsteady gasps. Loki could see the weariness that clung to him, like he was on the verge of collapse, like he’d been running on fumes for far too long.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” Loki said quietly, barely more than a whisper. “You won’t last if you do.”
Strange looked at him then, eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and a hint of something that looked heartbreakingly close to hope. He swallowed, his throat bobbing as he forced himself to steady his breathing. “Why… why would you care?” The question wasn’t malicious; it was broken, as if Strange himself couldn’t fathom why anyone would willingly stay beside him in this moment.
Loki hesitated, a strange ache filling the hollow space in his chest. He couldn’t quite explain it to himself, let alone to Strange. But something about seeing the Sorcerer Supreme, usually so untouchable, crumbling from the inside out, left him feeling strangely protective.
“I suppose…” Loki began slowly, almost embarrassed at the words that escaped him. “I know what it’s like to be burdened by something that eats away at you from within.” He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Perhaps, for once, I don’t wish to see another fall victim to the same darkness.”
Strange looked away, his expression unreadable, but there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, a quiet recognition that needed no words.
Without another word, Loki gently took one of Strange’s trembling hands and pressed a small, delicate vial into his palm. “It’s a temporary relief,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “But it will ease the pain, just for a while.”
Strange’s hand closed around the vial, his fingers brushing against Loki’s, lingering longer than necessary. For the first time, he didn’t protest. He took the vial, his voice soft and rough as he murmured, “Thank you.”
Loki watched him, that strange ache tightening in his chest again as he took in the sight of Strange—vulnerable, weary, and achingly human. And for once, he felt the weight of companionship, the quiet solidarity of two souls who understood the hidden toll of power, the silent agony that lurked beneath the surface.
In the dim, quiet halls of the Sanctum, Loki stayed, sitting beside Strange in silence, a silent promise that he wouldn’t let him face this darkness alone. Not tonight.