Darling
Between bouts of sweating, cramps, and catnaps, you tried to find pictures hidden in the swirls of spackle on the ceiling, like cloud-watching or stargazing. Strange to think that would be the last “sky” you’d ever see. You didn’t have the strength to even look out of the window behind your head, but knew it was there by the light shining past your shoulder and occasional clucks and chirps of the roaming chickens.
Based on your own mental clock and the angle of the sun glinting through the window, it couldn’t have been more than three hours since the snakebite, so your time to change your mind and accept their antivenom (if that’s even what it was) was winding down. But you’d made up your mind. It was over. Your suffering needed to end. It was nice, you supposed, that you didn’t jump off the roof at Stark Tower so long ago. This death would be much more peaceful. At first, you’d kept your arms crossed over your chest, but now they hung limp at your sides with your legs slung wide. You didn’t try to lift them, to take a dignified pose.
Suddenly, you noted a motorized purring, a whirring sound. You spent a few minutes trying to decide if it was the AC crapping out or part of a movie that the crew had put on in the living room. It got louder and louder and louder—tka tka tka tka tka tka tka—so you concluded they’d been gradually turning up the volume by the minute. Taunting you with the movie you’d asked for but couldn’t watch. Sounded like a pretty lame movie if you’d asked yourself.
Thud, thud, thud. A crash. Shouting. More shouting. You couldn’t make out the words.
Then, gunshots.
They actually sounded pretty real.
The doorknob to your room was jiggling. More shouting. The lock on your door finally gave. Cyrus was running towards you. Slid on his knees and crashed into your chair. It almost fell backwards, but he caught you, then hurriedly tended your ankles, searching for ties, swearing under his breath to himself. His hands were trembling.
“You didn’t tie me this time. Got venomed. Remember?”
He hissed another swear. Off in the living room, a dense whacking sound, like someone had been slammed against a wall. That sound was a familiar friend in the memory bank of your mind. Cyrus whipped around, checking the doorway, and wiped his forehead as he turned back to you. The color had drained from his face, leaving him wide eyed and ghostly pale.
“Just shut up and don’t make a sound and be very, very, very quiet and do exactly what I tell you, okay?”
He didn’t wait for your answer, lifting you in his arms bridal-style before taking off at a crouch-run down the hall, the opposite direction of all the noise. Quick and quiet. You fisted the collar of his button-up fishing shirt. Your eyes lifted, just barely peeking over his shoulder, but all you could make out in that short moment was a bright red splatter across the wall. There was so much yelling, but an inexplicable sense of calm laid thick like a fog inside your mind.
Cyrus, in a panicked frenzy, locked the door behind him, and then closed the two of you inside of a closet. Lots of men’s shirts and pants hung about. A little shoe rack with a few sneakers and a couple of leather loafers.
“Who’s room is this?”
“Shhhhhhhhh!” He wrapped one hand tightly around the back of your head and the other over your mouth so tightly your teeth could crack. He whisper-screamed. “I said shut up. Just shut up. Not another sound, got it?!”
You nodded.
He then situated the two of you in the back left corner of the closet, semi-shielded by the lengths of some slacks. His back was pressed to the wall and you were between his legs, your back flush against his torso. He nudged your head to the right so you were peeking out at the door, while his face was blocked by a pair of pants. His powerful limbs were like boa constrictors, locked so tightly around your body that he might crush you. He still kept a hand over your lips, fingertips pressing the bottom of your chin like a muzzle, not trusting that you’d stay quiet. You didn’t blame him. Cyrus shuddered from head to toe. With every pow or thump outside, he startled like an unbroken colt. The feral rush of his heart practically vibrated against your back. Whatever was going on out there, he was petrified. In that moment, you realized he was using you as a human shield. This was probably his room.
The heat of his breath took no time to make sweat roll down the side of your neck.
A gravelly voice roared in the hallway. The tussle was getting closer.
“WHERE IS SHE?!”
“I said I don’t know!”
“THAT’S A LIE.”
You easily identified the screech of a chair being dragged across tile before a loud clattering. You imagined someone hurling the chair in your cell into the wall. Cyrus’s body wracked with a silent sob. There was murmuring in the hallway, someone being tenderly reprimanded.
Another gunshot.
“No, no, no, wait—!” Allen’s voice. “Cy! CYRUS! HELP—!”
A wet crunch.
Silence.
A whimper squeaked in Cyrus’s throat. Gentle footfalls creeped down the hallway, closer and closer. The door handle jiggled. You counted three, two, and then heard a bang as the bedroom door burst open. Through the slits in the closet door, you saw a few large figures roaming. One crouched where the bed was, you assumed to look underneath it. Then, the silhouette of broad shoulders blocked the light coming through the slits. Someone was at the closet door. Cyrus’s hand wound tighter against your mouth, his breathing all but stopped. You felt a very dark coldness, knowing as an irrefutable fact that he was staring into his own death. Counting his final moments.
“Amateur hour,” the voice at the door said, low and rough. The Asgardian accent stuck out to you immediately, so similar to that of an Earthly British one. A voice you’d heard often and could easily recognize. It belonged to Loki Laufeyson.
The closet door swooshed open. Loki’s eyes immediately locked on yours, but they lacked their usual warmth. If you could have, you would have gasped at the severity of his gaunt features. Without being told, you knew at once this was a consequence of your disappearance. He was wearing all black, but his clothes had a heavy, wet sheen and iron-like smell that you instantly recognized as blood. He was soaked. His eyes drifted down to your mouth, which was covered by Cyrus’s hand. Loki had taken note of your quivering boa constrictor, nodding at the other men in the room to come and see. Tony Stark, also dressed in black, and Stephen Strange in his sorcerer’s regalia, seemed to materialize behind either of Loki’s shoulders. You held Stephen’s gaze—a long, meaningful wash from his crystalline blue eyes—he’d been the only one who’d truly witnessed your torture, lived it with you, as much as a person conceivably could.
“Is it him?” Loki said. Cyrus went rigid.
“I don’t know,” Stephen said, his voice distant, trailing off, as he kept his eyes on you.
“Show me your wrist,” Loki said, his authoritative voice booming.
“I WON’T BE SOME WEASEL YOU’VE TRAPPED IN A BURROW,” Cyrus screeched, face tucked into your shoulder, his voice quavering and hoarse. “YOU WON’T SMOKE ME OUT. ONE WRONG WORD AND I’LL SNAP HER NECK.”
“All we want is to take the girl and go,” Tony said, his voice measured and cautious. One look at Loki’s face and you knew by the glimmer in his eyes and the flared veins in his neck that his wants would be much different than Tony’s.
“HOW WILL I KNOW YOU WON’T JUST KILL ME AS SOON AS I LET HER GO?”
“You can’t know.” Stephen said, “But you can probably imagine by now that the girl is very valuable to us, so we want to do everything we can to get her out of here safely and in one piece. Help us do that.”
Cyrus was hyperventilating as the cogs in his mind turned, seeking a way out. There was a long silence.
“WE WILL WALK TO THE DOOR. I WILL BACK OUT OF THE DOOR AND LEAVE IN PEACE. BUT I’M NOT LETTING HER GO UNTIL I’M OUTSIDE.”
“So you want time to run away when we collect her,” Stephen confirmed.
“THAT’S THE ONLY WAY. YOU LET ME GO, I LET HER GO.”
“We can do that,” Stephen said.
“That’s a fine deal, very fair,” Tony said, nodding. “Men, let’s back up, give them some space.”
As Tony, Stephen, and Loki lined up at the back wall of the bedroom with their hands folded civilly, Cyrus lifted you up and continued using you as a human shield. This meant you were both facing your rescuers the entire time he backed out of the house. You’d gone limp like a ragdoll, your bare feet skidding along the floor, but it didn’t impede him. You looked at your three favorite men for a few seconds at a time, switching from one to the other at random. Pure joy radiated from every nerve in your body. It was almost over.
Cyrus wouldn’t remove his eyes from the men, not even for a moment to check behind and see where he was going, leading him to bump into walls and fixtures as he gradually worked his way to the back door. Your ankle knocked against a corner as you rounded a turn, making you grunt, and Cyrus quickly shushed you. Force of habit, you guessed.
“What did I say about being quiet, Dummy? Don’t you want to get out of here alive?!” His fit of rage caused him to jostle your head, whether accidentally or not. The sudden manhandling made you groan. You witnessed an almost imperceptible shift cross over Loki’s face. His jaw ticked. If there’d been a chance at mercy before, it was now completely gone. Stephen sensed the mood shift as well and placed a hand on Loki’s shoulder, a reminder of patience.
He stopped when his backside hit the doorknob.
“Now,” he hissed, “I’m going to back out of this door and one of you will take her. The other two stay on the wall so I can trust you to let me go.”
Tony started to give him the go ahead, Stephen pushing forward to receive you, but Loki cut him off.
“One last condition. I asked you once already to show me your wrist. I hope you won’t make me ask twice,” Loki said.
“What does my wrist matter to you?” Cyrus spat, sounding an awful lot like a five-year-old pushing their boundaries.
“I will eat you alive if you don’t,” Loki said matter-of-factly, clicking his teeth together to prove a point. Cyrus breathed roughly, contemplated the offer for two seconds, and then pulled his hand away from your mouth, revealing the fluttering bird on his wrist. Loki smiled at the sight, nodding to himself. The smile sent goosebumps over your skin. You’d never seen a look so sinister in your entire life, worse yet from a lover. “That will be all.”
Stephen came to you as Loki and Tony fell back, moving tenderly as if not to startle a wild animal. Cyrus reached behind his back, unlocked the door, and twisted it open.
“We good?” Cyrus said.
“Ready when you are,” Stephen said coolly, his hands at your armpits to keep you from falling whenever Cyrus let go. He knew your legs were feeling particularly weak today. Cyrus took one step back, still supporting you, then a second, and by the third he’d let go and was sprinting towards the woods.
Stephen enveloped you in his arms in a millisecond, petting your hair, smelling your temple, mumbling sweet nothings and praise Gods. Your eyes were wet as you crumbled against his chest, not making a sound but shuddering as you took in his scent, the musk of a man fresh out of battle. Tony muttered something that you couldn’t hear.
“Already on it,” Loki said, cracking his knuckles as he stepped around you and Stephen. “I just like the chase.”
“Please don’t be mad…I told Loki about what that man has done to you…The incident in the tub sent him over the edge,” Stephen explained.
You heard behind you as Loki took off in an animalistic sprint in the same direction as Cyrus. There was a hollow laugh. An awful scream. Stephen put one large palm over your ear and spoke into the other, loud enough to drown out whatever wretchedness was taking place outside, “I’m going to put a little sound bubble around your head while we load up in the chopper, okay? You won’t be able to hear anything else but I promise you are safe. It’s over, Peach. You made it.”
You nodded briskly, trying to drown out the sounds behind you. Squeezing your eyes shut, suddenly your ears were ringing as they adjusted to the complete absence of sound. Stephen lifted you into his arms and took off through the back door as well, Tony following close behind. You opened your eyes. There was the sky.
Looking over Stephen’s shoulder, you couldn’t peel your eyes from a most mesmerizing sight: Loki lifted Cyrus by the chin far above his head with just one arm, Cyrus’s legs kicking, struggling to find purchase, before Loki slammed him to the ground. He wheezed, the force of the drop knocking the wind from his lungs. Cyrus’s face looked swollen and battered. Stunned, you wondered how Loki managed to beat his nose into such a grotesque shape so quickly. Your eyes widened as Loki mounted his right foot on Cyrus’s chest, wielding a large, pointy-ended stick over his head. From the corner of your eye, you saw Tony look at you, then back at Loki, and then to the back of Stephen’s head, his mouth moving. Tony was saying something to Stephen, who quickly covered your eyes before you could see the weapon coming down. But you’d already seen where it was aimed: Cyrus’s face.
At last, you understood where that motorized whirring had been coming from, as Stephen loaded you into a helicopter and removed the sound-block from your ears.
“—said he was going to rip it off, balls and all, one piece at a time, so I just assumed he would save the eyes for last,” Tony said, shrugging.
“She can hear you,” Stephen grumbled as he began fumbling through a medical bag. There was a small setup of fluid bags and tubes next to your seat. “Peach, you’re going to feel a pinch, but we have to do this now. You’re almost at hour four which is the cut-off for antivenom. I’m going to take care of that nasty bite, okay?” He wasn’t looking at you, though, immersed in his element as he used a fine needle to draw a clear serum from its vial and worked on prepping the cure. He held the needle in front of his face, assessing, as you said okay and gripped the seat. You closed your eyes and breathed. You felt a cold spot on the crook of your elbow as he sanitized the injection site, stinging, pressure, and then more cold as the fluid in the bag rushed into your veins. “Good girl, there we are. You’re going to start feeling better really soon, okay?” His hand cupped your cheek.
“How long do you think loverboy will need?” Tony said, chuckling to himself.
“As long as it will take for him to think the score is even,” Stephen replied, fiddling with the IV stand. He couldn’t help himself, fidgeting like a nervous parent despite knowing all was well.
“But it can’t be made even,” Tony said.
“Right,” Stephen said.
“So we could be here for hours…” Tony scratched the hair beside his temple, squinting.
“If you’re so worried about our timeline, why don’t you go ask him for an itinerary?” Stephen bristled. Now that you were able to get a better look at his face—grimy, slightly bloodied—you noticed how much more gray his hair had gone. The stress took its toll on each man in a unique way, it seemed. For Loki, the weight, Stephen, the hair, and Tony…When he rolled his eyes and made a face at Stephen, you saw new wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and two between his eyebrows. All for you.
It only took about twenty minutes before you started feeling relief from the fluids. A fuller breath in your lungs. Energy in your veins. Clarity returning to your thoughts. Nausea fading. Stephen checked on you frequently, easily conforming to the role of doting caregiver, as the three of you waited for Loki’s return. In the meantime, Stephen cleaned you up with baby wipes. You didn’t realize how dirty you were, but one wipe after another turned a dingy brown or red or gray, until eventually they were coming back untarnished. You were clean enough for a ride home right on time, it seemed, as you watched Loki walking up from a distance.
No.
Something was wrong.
Loki was…slow. Hunched. Stumbling as he walked, favoring his left leg. One arm wrapped around his stomach. Face pinched, straining. Stephen noticed your worry and looked out the window. He cursed and seemed to forget that his favorite little patient was sitting next to him, jumping out of the helicopter and rushing to meet Loki. Stephen propped his shoulder under Loki’s armpit, wrapped an arm around his waist, and helped him with the rest of the walk. As they got closer, you could see Loki was gritting his teeth, sputtering, as he choked on agony. Dark, greasy locks of hair fell in his face. Stephen was mumbling something in his ear as he loaded him into the chopper; you could tell by the tone it was a word of comfort. Giving him dignity. The doors closed. Stephen gave the clear for liftoff.
“Eyes up front,” Stephen ordered. It was as if a completely new doctor had entered the helicopter. The deep, concentrated scrunch in Strange’s brow as he riffled through his medical kit once again put you on edge. Despite your better judgement, your eyes went to Loki. His back was arched as he panted like a dog tied to a post in the middle of summer, fighting against the seat-straps. A low grunt caught in his chest. Spit flung as he gasped with rasping sobs. Loki’s head was knocked back, teeth bared, with one lone tear cutting through the mud and blood splattered across his cheek.
“What happened to him?” Your eyes were on his body now, one hand violently clutching at his own stomach, trying to rip his shirt open but failing as it kept slipping through his fingers. The rest of him was ominously wet. How much blood belonged to the victims he met today? How much belonged to him? “Stephen, what happened?” It was impossible to tell through all that black clothing how damaged he was. His right leg convulsed. “STEPHEN!”
“Eyes up front, Peach. I’ll check on you soon.”
“Stephen—”
A mangled cry ripped through Loki’s chest. It turned you into pudding.
“I told him he needed to keep the weight on,” Stephen said to no one in particular as he began cutting Loki’s pants away. “I told him to keep eating until we got her back so he’d be prepared for a fight, but no, what does the neurosurgeon know about the body? Look at us now.”
“No longer a neurosurgeon,” Tony corrected.
“Loki, I’m here,” you squeaked, reaching for his arm. You tried not to flinch when the wet of his shirt met your hand.
“Darling,” he managed to choke out. Like a zombie, desperate, Loki snatched your wrist with his free hand, his nails digging into your soft flesh as he fought against the tremors rolling through his body, before finally kissing the back of your hand and releasing you. A shockwave of pain caught him off guard, shoving a noise of anguish through his throat that sounded like a dry-heave as his head slammed against the back of his seat. He spoke to you through gritted teeth. “If I die now, hearing the life remain in your exquisite voice was worth it.”
Sitting next to him, unable to help, felt as painful as someone trying to pry the nails off of your fingers. You drummed your fingers against your thighs and whined, lip quivering, as Stephen finally cut Loki’s shirt off. It took a few cleansing passes from the wipes before the damage was finally visible.
Loki had been shot towards the outer side of his upper right thigh, in the right shoulder, and finally in the outer left side of his torso. There was a slit in his right deltoid and below his bellybutton, to the left. The sight of Loki’s glistening wounds made your throat tight. You’d never seen him harmed, thought of him as invincible. When he thrashed, you saw a hole on the backside of his shoulder—an exit wound. You’d heard gunshots when they raided the house, you’d just made the error of assuming they came from the good side. Neither Stephen nor Tony appeared injured. Only Loki. He must have been on the frontlines the entire time, taking the brunt of the fight. Stephen glanced over each gash, taking no time at all and an eternity all at once.
“Weapon?” He asked, thumbing the gouge in Loki’s deltoid.
“Pocketknife,” he spat. “He stabbed me. Little snot could’ve slit her throat, but somehow you missed that during your little brain-raid parties. L-lucky she’s alive. He didn’t whip it out until the end.”
“Ah.” Stephen moved to the bellybutton one, pausing as his thumb rested over the area, asking a silent question.
“Same knife. Can’t you just scan my brain and get on with it?” His chest heaved, spittle flinging out every which way as he groaned and rolled his head back again.
“I’m respecting your privacy as my patient,” Stephen said lowly.
“You’re being a sadist,” Loki snarled.
“Peach?” There wasn’t an ounce of annoyance in Stephen’s voice.
“Yes.” you answered instantly.
“Hold his hand. He needs some moral support.”
In seconds, you and Loki had your foreheads forced together, his fingers twisting like the roots of an oak tree through your own.
“I’m here,” you kept whispering. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”
It was about a three-hour ride by helicopter back to Stark Tower. The first half of it was spent with your hand being crushed in Loki’s vice grip while Stephen dug bullets out of his body and stitched him up. The smell of Loki’s face and the warmth of his sweet breath as he panted and grunted through the pain brought you more comfort than you wanted to admit. It meant you were still alive, that he was still alive.
“That right arm will be out of commission until it heals,” Stephen said. “Might have some nerve damage.” He droned on, giving Loki instructions about the stitches and how to take care of himself until they could be removed. Neither of you listened. Loki, with his eyes half-lidded, busied himself with exploring the blessing of your life. Kissing the backs of your hands, turning them over, and kissing again along your palms, wrists, forearms. Pressing your hands against his cheeks, forehead, and eyes. Pushing your hair back and running his fingers through. Gingerly grasping your lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it. Holding your cheeks, tilting your head this way and that. Hovering his pointer finger below your nostrils so he could feel your breath. Watching, awed, at the sight of your chest rising and falling with each exaggerated inhalation. Syncing his breath with yours. He was like a caveman discovering the existence of a human woman. Despite all this, you still got the sense that he was displaying restraint. You’d never seen affection simultaneously temperate and untamed like this. It was his own personal little lovefest.
Loki had missed you.
He thought he’d lost you.
You tried not to think about what he would’ve done with himself had you died.
Meanwhile, Stephen had to continually pull you away from Loki’s attentions to check on your vitals and symptoms, make sure the antivenom was doing its job. Spoiler alert—it was. You’d be just fine. Just like with Loki, you noticed Stephen holding himself back. He wanted to pour his relief and love and excitement over you but knew that would mean taking something dear away from Loki, ruining a precious moment, which he simply wouldn’t do. Not while Loki was in such a state, at least. Stephen picked at the extra skin around his nails, his eyes moving up and down your frame over and over again. His nostrils would flare or mouth would curl into an almost-snarl whenever his gaze lingered on your bruises or cuts and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what he was thinking in those moments. He'd swallow, breath shallow, and continue evaluating. Watching you with a barbarous intensity. Not strictly medical. Occasionally, his eyes would meet yours, his face softening and lips twitching as if stopping himself from speaking. Then, Loki would steal your attention again in some way or another.
Eventually, when your hind was getting sore from sitting for too long, the helicopter perched on a landing pad atop Stark Tower. Medical staff rushed the door like a herd of bulls before efficiently yanking you out and hauling you away on a gurney, not realizing that the near-naked Loki was in more need of a checkup than you were. You screamed for help, overwhelmed and ill-prepared for the sudden explosion of attention. Some non-functional part of your brain knew this was a necessary precaution, that it should be no surprise that the company would have a team examine you before sending you back into the world, but you were unable to stop yourself from fighting them. Tossing violently and reaching with all your might for your men as the gurney dragged you off. Tony ordered them not to sedate you, saying you were just in shock, and that’s about the same time that you were strapped down, unable to move. In an act of defiance, you continued tossing your head around until someone stopped you from doing that too. When they finally got you inside, the familiar smell of the building, the smell of home, coaxed you to into relaxation. You stopped fighting.
A couple hours later, after being cleaned and cleared by doctors and having been formally introduced to the resident psychologist as his newest patient, you were free. Finally. Stephen Strange was waiting for you in the hall as you stepped out of the therapist’s office. He looked clean, his salt and pepper hair damp from a recent shower. He was dressed in a white tee shirt and grey sweatpants that smelled like they had just come out of the drier. You both opened your mouths and started to say something, stopped to let the other one speak, and then laughed.
“You first,” you said warmly, squeezing his bicep. There was an empty, forlorn look in his rich azure eyes despite the half smile he gave you. He searched your face desperately, stammering on his thoughts before finally settling on what he wanted to say.
“I’m just glad you’re home.”
“You could try to sound more convincing.” You hooked your arm around his as you both turned and began walking back to your apartment. Stephen must have really wanted some extra time with you, taking you the long way that would pass the reception desk instead of going straight to the elevators.
It was nighttime, now. Your nurses had mentioned some talk of Tony throwing a party to celebrate your homecoming. You imagined fireworks sparkling against the flat black sky through the windows you walked past.
“I just know things are going to be different now, that’s all. It’s the end of an era.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” you said. You felt your back beginning to tense, not wanting a confrontation.
“But it is. I don’t mean in a bad way. It’ll just be different. I’m mourning the way things were between us before and we can’t go back to that. Not after what we’ve been through.” Stephen’s face was totally neutral if not drooping. You sensed that he was holding something back, hiding a piece of information.
You tripped over your own feet when the reception desk was in sight. In your ex-best-friend’s seat, there sat a petite woman with long, dark brown coils of hair, a couple rings on her finger, and a pair of smart-looking tortoiseshell glasses. She looked young, stable, and serious with her full lips tucked to the side in a concentrated pout. She was still learning the ropes, you guessed. Margot had left big shoes to fill. When the woman heard you and Stephen enter the room, her back went straighter than a lamppost. She offered you a dignified nod. She was wide-eyed, nervous.
“This is Charlotte,” Stephen murmured in your ear. “She already knows you plenty well, though. The building has been buzzing.”
“I can see that,” you said with an airy laugh, wondering just how much they’d told her about you. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte.” You waved politely and continued on, finally making it to the elevators.
“She’s not going to have access to Tony’s phone like the last receptionist did,” he assured you.
“That was Margot texting me that night at my parents’ house? She lured me away?” You were bewildered. Stephen nodded. You scrubbed the back of your hand against your forehead as you both stepped in the elevator. “I just don’t understand. She was my best friend. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No one will ever have a reason good enough to justify being a villain. From what we understand, Darren just promised her a lot of money and strung her along with enough sex to make her believe him. Our guess is she wanted to be your friend because your high rank in the company. Thought that would help her climb the corporate ladder. Simple. Happens every day.” Stephen shrugged as he pressed the button for your floor. You tried not to acknowledge to yourself how much that thought made your heart sink, but you couldn’t blame Strange for being so cavalier. Being sorcerer supreme, he’d seen horrors much worse than a friend with loyalty issues.
“Where is she now?”
“She was in the living room with the rest of them when we came for you. There were no survivors. You know, without them letting you outside just that one time…without me seeing the outside of the home when I took control of your eyes, I don’t think we would have found you in time.”
You gulped and decided you’d process your feelings some other time. Lucky you had a therapist now. You’d have to remember to thank Tony later for arranging that.
“How about the flash drive?”
“Recovered safely and a new method for storing and securing the files is in progress as we speak… The kid had just been keeping it in his pants pocket. He was so young, I don’t think he thought it all the way through… Are you okay?” He turned to you, brows furrowed in concern. “Don’t you want to talk about something happy? There’s this new Chinese takeout that opened up a couple blocks away—”
“Where’s Loki?”
That same lopsided smile from before clouded Stephen’s face at the mention of Loki’s name.
“Medical finished with him about an hour ago…I guess you’ve made your choice then,” he said, tilting his head at you. The elevator dinged open. Stephen lead you into the hallway.
“What choice?” You shook your head, not understanding. He swallowed.
“When I came to your parents that night before you left—before you were taken, I mean—I told you I wasn’t going to share you, that I wouldn’t live warring with him over you forever. And now you’re home and… It’s not like you don’t already know. You cry for him when you’re in danger, he was all you wanted to talk about when you were away, he’s all you’ve thought about since the moment we picked you up. You could barely take your eyes off of him in the helicopter. Even in the beginning when you and I were in our most intimate, vulnerable moments, you thought of him. Don’t do that to me. Don’t string me along.”
The breath was nearly knocked from your lungs.
“Stephen, I just got home, I haven’t even stepped in my front door yet. Can’t we talk about this another time? Once I settle in?” Your voice rattled.
“If you have an ounce of affection towards me, you’ll get it over with. You’re in love with him, Peach.”
He was right.
“I am.” Your eyes welled with tears.
“I won’t hate you. You will still be the most precious, special person to me. I will always be your friend. Maybe not his. Actually, yeah, never his. But always yours.” He was holding your shoulders, rubbing soft circles into them with his thumbs.
You choked back a sob.
“Stephen, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry.” He wrapped you into a hug, tucking his chin over your head as he smoothed his palm over your back. “I know it’s not on purpose. I know that.”
“Thank you.” You said, sniffling. You wiped your eyes as he pulled away. “I love you.”
“I love you too. That’s never going to change.”
“I have to be with him,” you croaked.
“He’s waiting on your couch. He agreed to let me walk you home if he got to help you settle back in. I guess that will be the last time I ever share you.” He gave you an odd, melancholy smile. Stephen Strange hugged you once more, planted a goodbye kiss on your forehead, and watched you bolt the rest of the way down the hall. You wouldn’t wait a second longer than necessary to see Loki. Your Loki.
He must have heard you coming because when you stepped inside, he tackled you to the floor. Loki, unable to lift you in his arms like he’d wanted due to his injuries, encased himself around you like a swarm of bees: thousands of stinging kisses, a feverish horde of arms and hands that couldn’t decide where to touch, and his eyelashes and long, smooth nose like soft wings brushing over your cheeks. You were unable to see through the dark, massive net of his hair that shrouded your face, but you weren’t scared. You were safe. Finally. He said everything you’d ever needed to hear and everything you’d ever want to hear again. All he could say was darling.
“Darling, darling, darling.”