Forgetful
If you weren’t so drunk, perhaps you wouldn’t have considered jumping. The balcony at Stark Tower was so ungodly high… That bourbon margarita had your face so uncomfortably warm. You leaned over on your tiptoes, hand curling just a little tighter around your glass to keep it from slipping from your grip. It was ironic, really, you’d imagined jumping to feel the cool air across your face, maybe pretend for a moment that you were one of the Avengers, maybe hope that one of them would catch you and save you from certain death, but God forbid you break a glass on the way down.
Some sober neuron, buried deep within the tangle of your otherwise inebriated brain, fired off. That’s a little too high, dear, it whispered, might be a good time to step back. With a sigh, you obeyed. Your body had a little trouble catching up with that neuron, though, and then you’d taken two and three and four steps back until your ass bumped into somebody and then you were stumbling and grabbing someone’s jacket and oh, shit, fuck, you were falling. Yet again, your hand uselessly tightened around your drink as if it could possibly save you, or you it, you weren’t really sure anymore. The air was already out of your lungs and your hair clouded around your face like smoke by the time you hit the ground. No, that couldn’t have been ground… It was warm. Soft. Any impact you expected to feel in your tailbone never came. With a dazed inhale, you realized your face had been smushed against a man’s chest through the chaos of your fall. His palm cradled the back of your head. He’d caught you. Like a fawn learning to walk, your ankles wobbled as he guided you back upright. You must’ve twisted one… There was a dull throbbing in the right ankle that urged you to not put too much pressure on it.
“Help,” you said. In the shock, your whine was pathetic, cracking and sounding more infantile and defeated than dignified. It woke you up a bit. As a young assistant trying to make a name for herself, the firm and confident tone you normally used in Stark Tower was responsible for anyone taking you seriously. Now, you just sounded like a child asking for someone to reach the cookie jar. You leaned into him, seeking extra support to be sure you wouldn’t fall again. That same sober neuron reminded you to be embarrassed about that. Maybe tomorrow. Somehow, your cheeks felt even hotter.
Ugh. You should never have come. You should have never had this much to drink, especially at a work party… even if it was one of Stark’s. Thinking of Tony, you scrunched your brow, remembering the weak excuse he’d pulled for this party. Loki was basically here in Stark Tower on probation, proving that, with the help of some plucky planet-saving babysitters, he wasn’t totally evil and definitely wouldn’t try to take over the world again. What a crock of shit, you’d thought. You could only hope that Loki’s presence on campus wouldn’t impact your safety or job too much when he would inevitably find and exploit some weak spot of the organization. You were resentful enough of your job being contingent on a boarding school style living arrangement. It was easier to protect the employees with the most clearance when they were all in the same spot. So, until Loki showed his ass again, your only choice was to shut up and enjoy this party in his honor. Really, you knew Stark was just looking for an opportunity to get hammered. Just like you were, right now, as you groaned into a stranger’s chest.
“I am helping,” the man said. You were too disoriented to focus on who he was. Through the tight sheath of your little black dress, the warmth of his hand leaked through to your hip. Another hand lingered on your shoulder, steadying you. “Are you going to be alright?”
The music was blasting. Before you could recognize the song, muscle memory made your hips sway automatically. You winced, remembering the fresh twist in your ankle. Your focus started to turn to the lights. So many lights on this balcony… Flashing. Blue, red, yellow, pink, green…Ugh. At first it was pretty, but if you stared for too long, you knew you’d turn green yourself. He said something else, but through your focus on the lights, his voice sounded like it was underwater.
“Huh?”
“I said we ought to sit down.”
“No, no. I’m good, I’m good,” you said, waving him off. Then, you were moving against your own volition, trudging through the crowd of guests. God, there must have been hundreds of people here. You looked down when you felt a squeeze. His hand was around your wrist. He was pulling you inside. Oh.
Too worried about falling again, your attention went to making sure your feet were sturdy and keeping up with his pace. You were already starting to limp on the right one, though, and dreaded the idea that in the morning, when all this drink was worn off, you’d feel the full brunt of your mistakes.
There was a burst of light and heat, some crackling sound, and a few guests started cheering at something to your right. You whooped along with them, trying to look up at the excitement and raise your free arm, but the man yanked you a little harder and you stumbled again. You swore under your breath.
By the time you looked up again, you were back in your office. He pushed you down into your swivel chair. The force shot you back until the crown of your head smacked into the wall. You gasped, eyes slipping shut as you lifted your hand to check the damage. Shit, wrong hand. The icy remnants of your margarita spilled over your scalp and ran down your back. You hissed and the shock of it all finally compromised your grip on the glass. It shattered instantly when it hit the floor.
“God, look at you,” he said. “I get you alone for two seconds and you’re already causing trouble.” The man ruffled a hand through his hair and your drunk brain went into overdrive analyzing the move. His hands were scarred and gnarled with deep punch-colored lines running over the spines of his fingers, following the line of his tendons back to the wrist. The hair his hand mussed was technically short since it was styled, but in the shower, you imagined it was long enough to cover his eyes, even with his tall forehead. His mane was dark, almost black, with two thick streaks of grey running back from the temples. “Doctor Strange,” you realized, though not meaning to announce it. Your hand came over your eyes in a futile attempt to quell the new wave of nausea that rolled in. Whether it was from either of your two newest injuries, or the drinks, or all of the above, all that stimulation was settling into your gut in the worst way. You let out a soft groan, feeling again like an infant, your hand sliding across your torso. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it,” Stephen said. His voice was low and soft. You kept your eyes closed as he rolled you towards your desk. One of his hands swept up behind the base of your neck, tilting your head forward. The other hand was careful, prodding ever so tenderly as it moved the hair away from where you hit your head. Still, you couldn’t help but whine.
“No blood,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. His thumb smoothed velvet-soft circles over that sensitive spot. Intuition sensed him leaning over you, closer, and then he was…smelling your hair? No… You could’ve sworn he kissed over your new bruise, feeling extra warmth and pressure on the crown of your bourbon-soaked head. Maybe he was just looking at it closer… Maybe it was him pressing another finger, trying to inspect you…Whether it was from surprise or pain, you made another noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a grunt.
“Shhh,” he whispered. You opened your eyes, watching him take the seat on the other side of your desk and scooching it closer to you. Despite being drunk, you couldn’t have possibly mistaken Stephen’s languid gaze oozing down your frame. He paused at the floor, eyebrows pinching together. “You hurt your ankle?”
The nausea was making you pant. You weren’t sure what he saw that gave the injury away, but you were grateful. You nodded, unable to fight how shrill you sounded when you complained again, “It hurts.”
Doctor Strange leaned closer, running his hand down behind your right calf to lift the leg and settle it on the desk where he could inspect the injury a bit better. Already self-conscious and thinking about the view he and whoever might waltz through your door would find, you squeezed your left knee inward. It wasn’t perfect, but at least you could pretend you still had your dignity.
“Relax,” he said. His voice was a little firmer now, impatient with your squirming. His eyes went from your face to your hands which pressed over your groin, making any effort you could to conceal yourself. Yes, the doctor was attractive, but you weren’t going to let that damned dress ruin your reputation. No matter how dreamy he or his perfectly coiffed and evenly salt-streaked hair may have been, the fact that you worked together, in however disjointed a way, was a huge issue. He pouted down at you like you were a child doing something too cute to be scolded for. “Sweetie, I won’t look. Do you have some lotion?”
That was good enough for you.
“That drawer, there,” you said, pointing and feeling your heartrate pick up as he retrieved your miniature bottle of hand-lotion and repositioned himself over you. For his large hands being so damaged and having the near-demonic reputation that they did, his fingers were surprisingly nimble as he unclasped your heel and set it to the side. Your left foot braced itself on the ground, the broken glass under your stiletto crunching as it was pushed away. Your hands claw-gripped either arm of your chair and you sucked in a breath, preparing for the pain.
The lotion sounded wet and slick in his palms. It was cool at first and his touch was unyielding and forceful, making you cringe. You let out a slow, shaky breath. His hands slid over your skin and instantly found the troubled area. It sent a hot, shooting sensation up your leg. Unable to keep yourself from crying out, your nails clamped back down, head throwing itself back. You took to biting your fist to quiet (though, unfortunately, not stop) the howling.
There was a bang as your office door flung open. Stephen startled and turned around as your hands fled back over your groin, your left leg flexing in to protect your privacy. You noticed Stephen rolling his shoulders back.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, shifting to the side. You could only assume he was trying to shield you.
“That’s what I was wondering,” the other voice responded. The Asgardian accent stuck out to you immediately, for there were a select few residents of Stark Tower with accents so similar to an Earthly British one. It was a voice you’d seldom heard but easily recognized. It was low and rough. It belonged to Loki Laufeyson.
“She’s fine,” Stephen said. “Just took a little tumble.”
Your gaze was flickering everywhere, fighting to see some part of him. The alcohol lingering in you was convinced that you were mistaken…Certainly the dreadful Loki wouldn’t have invested any interest in Stephen Strange and his dealings, or you, Tony Stark’s assistant, who he’d only met a few times during his initial check-in. Between Stephen’s legs you could see the tapered ends of Loki’s overcoat, the green lining within. You leaned to the side, trying to get a glimpse at his face, still not totally satisfied. Loki’s gem-green eyes locked with yours as he saw the movement, leaning over with you around the wall of Stephen. His gaze travelled over you, emotionally detached though scrutinizing, and you noticed him tense when his eyes made it to your hands. He clearly saw you covering your groin. The fear of having yet another relatively-strange man see up your skirt had your pulse booming in your ears, but you were in too much pain and frankly too drunk still to try getting your right leg down from its hoist. You opted for pulling the hem of your dress down a bit more. Loki looked back at the Doctor, eyebrows raised. Even from across the room, you could see Loki’s sharp, defined jaw clenching. He wouldn’t look back at you anymore, engaged in an intense staring contest with Stephen.
“It’s really not what it looks like, Loki,” Stephen said, sensing the weight of Loki’s presumption. He showed his palms in innocence while shaking his head.
“Could it be what it sounded like, then? A drunk girl hollering and waving for help as she’s pulled through a crowd, thrown into a room before a series of crashes and bangs? How about the shriek of glass breaking? Surely her whimpering and whining meant nothing either? Or her gasps and protests of pain? I couldn’t have possibly heard that, could I?” Loki was shaking, speaking faster with each word. You could tell by the way he trembled that he was using all his mental energy to keep himself from moving, being violent, from immediately sacrificing the deal he’d made with Stark. Stephen tried to explain himself, but Loki wouldn’t stand down, holding up a hand to silence him as he finally looked back at you. “Are you hurt?”
You blinked.
“My ankle,” you said. Still a bit dizzy from your labored breathing, you tried to take a slow inhale to explain the situation, but the only words you could find were, “Stephen just touched it.”
Doctor Strange looked back at you, mouth agape, before turning back to Loki, “Buddy, I don’t have time for the witch-hunt. You don’t realize how drunk she is.”
“No, doctor, I do realize how drunk she is. That’s quite the point, isn’t it? Tell me, does the ‘do no harm’ vow lose its meaning when you’re no longer qualified to practice?” Loki said. His voice was straining as he fought to keep his composure. “Stark is looking for you. Get out of my sight before I make that task impossible.”
Stephen hesitated before straightening his back and shaking his head as he walked off. Loki refused to step out of the way, forcing Stephen to shoulder-check him as he left. The moment the doctor was out of sight, Loki rushed forward, a few coils of his raven black hair falling over the straight bridge of his prominent nose. He reached straight for your leg, pulling it down from the desk without realizing your injuries. The pain was like a nightmare, the heat so hot this time that it actually sent a chill running up your side, making you jolt like a feral animal. You weren’t going to be able to fight the nausea this time. The pit in your stomach swelled up into your throat.
“You ignorant fuck,” you hollered, throwing yourself off the chair to kneel in front of the garbage can next to your desk without any regard to the glass that was all over the floor.
“What did I—” he started. You wretched and heaved, clutching the can closer as your body released. The burn in your throat made you shudder, inhuman groans spilling over your lips. Loki must have realized his mistake, “Oh, Gods.” He gagged.
“We really should get you off the—” you interrupted him again with your next lurch, hot vomit splashing over your discarded papers from the week. Your panting was ragged. His voice sounded different now, like he’d covered his mouth. “There’s glass,” was all he could say, his voice tight and controlled.
You started trying to regulate your breathing but kept your face over the garbage can, just in case.
"Too late,” you said. Your throat was raw and your voice now showed it.
“Finished?” Loki said, putting a tentative hand on your back. He must have realized the drink you’d spattered on yourself, “Gods almighty, why are you wet?”
“I spilled,” you said. You yawned thoughtfully over your upturned dinner and then nodded, “All done.” Loki’s hands were immediately under your armpits. He lifted you and held you away from himself as if you were an infant with a soiled diaper. Then, your hind came down on the desk, the wood cooling the backs of your thighs. For a night filled with so much heat, from the party to the drinks to the puking, it was a nice treat. You sighed.
Loki had taken to brushing some of the larger chunks of glass from your knees. Luckily, you’d had a hard time learning to shave back in the day, so you barely felt them bleeding. At first, he was rough with you, but when he saw finer shards glinting under the overhead lights, his fingers were as deft as tweezers. He plucked and pulled with such measured ease that you couldn’t even feel the pressure of his hands, just the chilling pinpricks of blood leaking out as the glass was removed.
“You surprised me,” you said.
“How’s that?” Loki asked, though sounding thoroughly disinterested. You imagined he was just placating you in your drunk state, but you continued anyways.
“The fearsome Loki, the ruthless son of Odin,” you said, your deep growl mocking him, “Sorry, Laufey, I mean…rushing to save a woman not even in real danger…”
He rolled his eyes, his face centimeters from your knees as he inspected them for any remaining glass, “With due respect, you may be too intoxicated to understand the peril you were just in. You didn’t hear what I heard, mortal.”
You didn’t have the energy or capacity to explain your situation to him. Liquor still raging through your veins, every time you thought to start speaking, your mind got stuck at the flashing lights on the balcony and went blank again. The two of you stayed in comfortable silence for a while until you fought enough through your stupor to speak again, “So what? Murder thousands to own shitty, dumb Earth but…I mean…‘Gods’ forbid a man other than you be alone with a woman while she’s drunk…At least Stephen’s a doctor…He would have actually helped if you weren’t mean to him…”
Loki chose to ignore you. His hands were busy over your body, tender and slow. He inspected your frame like you were an artifact, like you’d evaporate if he was too harsh. His search started at your ankles, though he was overly cautious with your damaged one, now that he realized the source of your pain, and moved up, prodding, twisting, and lifting limb by limb. You were confused, and as he made it to your thighs, you decided to take offense. Your good foot planted itself against his chest and pushed him back, holding him away from you like a guard dog, “Hey, hey, why so handsy, buster?” Even you were a bit shocked at how loud you were.
He held up his hands in innocence, not forcing himself towards you but not backing away either, “Your night seems to be wrought with misfortunes. I’m inspecting for any further injuries. If you’d rather, I can get a medic.”
“There was literally just a doctor in here, cowboy,” you said with a snort.
"My, you are difficult. Please just—"
“Just my head,” you spat, crossing your arms. “No medics. I’m fine.” You didn’t put your foot back down.
“May I check?” he asked. You glowered at him, trying to see if it was somehow a trick, given his nature as the God of Mischief. Being as drunk as you were, you couldn’t honestly trust your conclusion either way. Your foot dropped.
“Fine,” you said with an accusatory finger-point. “Just my head.” He was immediately back in your personal space, chest in your face as he tilted your head down. Loki made a displeased grunt, hesitating over your damp scalp before sighing and forcing himself back to work. When he found the damage, which didn’t take long thanks to the fact that it was swollen, you flinched and yelped.
“He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Loki said, though it was quiet, not meant for your ears.
“Was n’ accident,” you said, “You weren’t here… Plus you didn’t answer me before…About the…About the…You know.” You waved a small circle, hoping he would remember your confusion about his concern for you.
Loki lowered himself down to your eye level, his lips in a sympathetic tight line, “Indeed I’ve brought violence and ended lives many times over, but there are still things that I don’t believe in, things that are unforgivable… As a God, I can have virtually any woman I want, so there’s no prestige to be gained from bedding one who doesn’t want my advances. As the son of a mother who doted on me, I can’t condone asserting myself over another woman. Doctor Strange should share the same sentiments tenfold, given his background. I was thoroughly surprised to find that my judgement of his character was wrong. I can normally spot malicious intent quite easily, being the God of Lies…of Mischief. He went under my radar, perhaps thanks to the alcohol. With all the excitement of tonight, I fear I was nearly too late. I think in the morning, you may have a better grasp on what could have happened had I not been here. For that, I am deeply sorry.”
Silence fell over the two of you again as you mulled over his words, fighting to process everything he was saying. Your mind trailed off as you tried to measure the curve of your eyeballs under the lids as you blinked. Maybe he got impatient waiting for you to respond, or maybe he was feeling a little more open than normal, perhaps hoping that you wouldn’t remember when you were sober. Whatever the case was, he continued.
“I know I’ve done everything in my power to earn this reputation… That of a cruel monster, an irredeemable killer with insatiable bloodlust. I am the one who can’t be trusted. But… It is still possible for me to do good things. I can stop bad things from happening too, even without ulterior motives,” he said, his eyes burning into yours, willing you to hear him.
“Stephen wasn’t…Ugh. He was helping,” you said, exasperated. Loki let out a breath and nodded.
“Why don’t we discuss it in the morning?” Loki said, a sad, stiff smile locked onto his face. He patted your thigh the same way a father might at his son’s baseball game before calling him “Champ” or “Big Guy.” He squatted all the way down, your hand instinctively shooting back over your nether-regions and legs clamping shut as he clasped your missing high-heel back around your foot. “Let’s get you home.” He slid one arm under the bend in your knees and the other around your back, lifting you like an infant to carry you out.
“I feel sorry for whoever will come to see all this mess you’ve made on Monday,” he said with a small laugh.
“This is my office,” you said, pouting. You closed your eyes, head lolling back onto Loki’s shoulder. The ends of his hair tickled your nose, so you lifted and tucked your face into his neck. He didn’t react, instead asking about how to find your room in this massive building.
“It’s up there,” you said, not even bothering to open your eyes or point in any direction. “On the left, when you face it.”
“Of course,” Loki said softly. “How could I have been so forgetful?”