COMFOR(TEA)NG
COMFOR(TEA)NG
Loki has basically created the Avengers all by himself. So he knows that if he intends to drop a Asgardian city on Midgard, he’d rather check before if the current batch of Avengers will be a threat.
Also, he’s in a Cabal with the new head honcho of them, so he’s pretty sure the newbies lean a bit on the bad side, the less heroic side. (More dangerous side?)
It calls for a bit of reconnaissance, then. So he drops himself into their dark tower. (Which is not actually dark, and bothers Loki a little on a purely narrative standpoint: bad guys not showing enough they’re the bad guys. Odd, when he’s the god of Lies.) On the contrary, all is distractingly shining glass and metal and mirrors.
The team’s likeness is splashed on almost every wall inside, it’s not hard to assume the form of one of them, the lean wolverine, why not, because how no one realizes the travesty when he sure doesn’t look anymore like a humped grumpy furry bear is beyond Loki (and amuses).
The Asgardian has hardly the time to turn on his heels that he catches the sight of the blue and purple archer turning a corner and even picking up in speed as he sees him. In spite of the cowl, one can pick up a definitively somber expression on him.
“Punk,” is mumbled under his breath, so low indeed only a wolverine (or a god) could hear, in an odd tone of annoyance and anger and almost despair underlined by surprising relief.
Not even further greetings. As soon as he’s in range, the archer reaches towards the god's head, gloved hand wrenching the cowl off his face with urgency. Which could spell trouble for Loki. But, he’s the god of Con, too, and it’s magic how even not knowing the face of Osborn’s wolverine, he can still produce it out of thin air. (Like the cold reading of fake seers, but in divine proportion, he can magick so fast the illusion’s likeness to what the puny little mortal is expecting and wants to see.) The God gets a glimpse of himself in the corridor’s long mirror: though the exotic features and cold clear eyes are beautiful, the haircut is questionable, Loki decides. Still works, though.
The Asgardian pains to make the smile on this face either friendly or engaging. The natural smirk of this mouth naturally leans to cut like an insult.
Still, the archer heaves a oddly thankful sigh at the sight, even though there’s still a dark storm boiling in his clear eyes under the blue and purple cowl of the newcomer.
“Shut up,” the archer intimates before Loki can even think what to say, and proceeds to crash their mouths together in a hurry to enforce his command.
Frankly, Loki hadn’t seen this one coming. Neither the arrow suddenly stabbed in his flank in the same move. (One insane second he considers playing mortally wounded, only to in extremis remember: wolverine. He’s probably supposed to be able to take this. That frigging hurts, though.)
Oh, OK. Inside dissent among the team, the god notes. Loki might use this, later.
But he’s suddenly become the reluctant crutch of the archer, for now, who remains draped all over him in a weirdish defeated abandon. His tone is comically mournful when he starts:
“Normie doesn’t want me outside. Says I might kill someone. But that’s what I’m supposed to dooo, ‘m I not?! I’m Bull— ah, shit. I’m not supposed to tell. He’s afraid I’m going to tell.” And like you would a secret: “World feels wonky,” is whispered to Loki's ear.” While suddenly the Asgardian is held even closer. “Not right, punk.”
The archer’s beady little eyes in his shifty little face keep straying aside, as if he were seeing things from the corner of his eyes.
Ask Loki, there’s something not right with this one. Clearly. He’s the god of Lies, and still, for once, he has no idea what to say. But since silent, unfortunately, seems to mean consent, he finds himself dragged to a door, to personal quarters, to a bed, where the puny little mortal rolls himself into a miserable ball, yanking him down with him. Nails, even through thick gloves, dig like claws in his flesh, in an attempt to keep him there.
Loki rakes his brain. That’s not how he’d planned his day.
But. There’s always a drink to fix something on Midgard, most often beer, Thor once said. And if he remembers right, bed-ridden little mortals are a bit different, so:
“I’ll make you tea,” Loki says, disentangling himself from the little nuisance, pointedly ignoring any exhibited distress, or the way the archer seems to make himself even smaller on the mattress. And leaves the place without waiting for an answer with a sigh of relief and noooo regret.
For consistency’s sake, it’s the archer’s form he then assumes, exiting the room, with is fortunate, because he finds himself almost as soon face to face… with his former appearance. Huh. Yeah, even with the cowl on you can tell the guy is pretty. He’d had that part right, hm? The wolverine doesn’t look particularly happy, though:
“What’s this non-sense about you not being on the roster today? I’m not doing a job with the Sentry. He’s pretty but he gives me the creeps. And you look all fine to me.”
Only, before Loki has even the time to answer, something subtle happens to the wolverine’s face. And the Asgardian finds himself with a wolverine very, very close, almost breathing the same air as him, and two long claws in his stomach. (That’s that kind of day, apparently.) The wolverine’s nostrils are now flaring under the mask.
“And what have you done with my little man, now, döppelganger-san?”
Claws leave Loki’s belly (it’s hardly a relief) only to come tease his jugular. The murder intent spilling from this mortal is staggering, like it could leave its own taste in Loki’s mouth. (As if the foul one of the puny man from before wasn’t enough.)
“Nothing,” Loki hurries to explain, raising his archer’s gloved hands in mock surrender. “He’s just having a very bad day, it appears. And wanting tea for comfort.”
“Tea?” The wolverine looks frankly alarmed, at that. “You, take your mischief elsewhere, or whatever,” he says, releasing him with a loss of interest a tad insulting, let it be said.
“Okaaaaay,” Loki says to the retreating back.
“Tea! This will not do. Broken toys are useless,” the wolverine is saying under his breath while departing. “Tea it is, then.”
The god shakes his head in disbelief. One wants to curl into a ball and whine, the other is easily distracted with tea. Loki doesn’t even need to know more of them Dark Avengers, really. His co-cabalist’s heroes don’t look like much. He’ll manage. And disappears with a snap of his fingers.
Epilogue
“I thought you were gone,” Bullseye mumbles reproachfully, face hidden in his arms. He won’t look up. Because black spiders and red devils are crawling everywhere in the room.
He feels the weight on the mattress, though. He senses the move over his shoulder, the clank of a mug posited on his bedside table, the familiar scent of the punk’s cherished green tea. He relaxes somewhat. Doesn’t stir though.
“You asked for some tea,” Daken non-commitally says.
Problem is, Lester has ever asked to taste his tea only once, the mutant recalls. One very bad day, when his meds made his mouth so desiccated his lips were cracked and his gums bleeding. And yes, Lester’s stink is different today. Normie’s been messing with his little man’s chemicals again. Daken is not pleased. Lester’s chemicals are his to play with, dammit.
(That’s why Osborn deserves to deal with the shifter nuisance in the halls all by himself, for all Daken cares, by the way.)
“You offered some tea,” ever the contradicting one, even at his worst, Lester.
Or the shifter was a liar, which now that Daken thinks about it, was likely.
“You said yes,” he still tries to make up for. It’s not the moment to make the little man think there are fakes of him running around. Not good for paranoia.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bullseye mutters. And adds, in a surprisingly resentful tone: “I thought it was some pretext for you to ditch me. I wasn’t going to ask you to stay, then.”
“Well, we have tea, and I don’t mind staying,” Daken soothes. “You have books, I see.” And after a beat: “Your meds smell off.”
“I knoooow.”
“Seeing things?”
The pause is longer.
“A bit.”
“But I’m real enough.”
It’s true, Bullseye thinks. Sadly, Daken, though more often than not a little liar who lies, feels like the only thing he can trust right now. Catching sight of him in the hallway had been a respite from his sudden unhingedness. Illusion can’t fake the punk’s taste, the feeling of his flesh yielding softly under his weapons.
“Hmph.”
But the punk’s hand falls on his thigh.
“Not in the mood,” Bullseye hurries to say.
He realizes his mistake at once, because he knows the punk could make him get in the mood, willing or not. A tendril of fear makes its cold felt down his spine.
“OK,” the punk simply replies, and though the hand stays, it doesn’t try anything funny. It’s almost comfortable, having it here and undoubtedly real.
“We have tea, I can pillage your books since you won’t be able to stop me in your poor state,” (and Bullseye can’t help his disbelieving snort, at that,) “I’m taking a day off,” Daken concludes.
Bullseye will bask for a moment in the feeling of being safe from the world, then. Any spider or red devil, the punk can deal with, anyway. He’s sure.
It’s OK. (He can stab Daken another day, too.)
He’ll think like himself soon enough: he knows how these things work, with Normie’s meds. And he’ll be in the mood for sanely-thought-through carnage soon enough as well. Functional enough when Osborn will propose to storm an Asgardian city the next day.
For now, he grabs the wolverine’s wrist, hard. And doesn’t let go for hours.