two cut/reworked scenes
XXXXXX
“I need… assistance.” Loki spits the word like it has personally murdered his family. He sits on the edge of the bed, pajama pants folded next to him. Steve keeps his mouth shut and comes over. “Pull my shirt off. Please.”
A great deal of hissing, swearing, and Loki not being able to lift his arms up enough to get the shirt off later, Steve gets his pocket knife out and just cuts the damn thing off.
“How did you even get it on?” Steve asks, tossing it aside and finally seeing the mass of cuts and bruises, a wrap tight around Loki’s chest to keep his ribs in place.
“I believe it was all the morphine and tranquilizers they injected me with after I tried to throw a tantrum. Everything went fuzzy ‘bout the edges for a time.” Loki carefully slips into the pajama pants, then gathers together all the pillows into one pile. “Valhalla, I don’t think I’ve ever hurt so much in my life. How does anyone repeat these things knowing they might end up this way?”
“We’re all a bit insane.”
“At least it explains something.” Loki settles gingerly back, hissing.
“Indeed.” Steve pulls the blankets around Loki’s waist. “Now get some rest. No moving about, tossing, turning, or disobeying doctor’s orders. I have to go work. You’re off your sleep meds until we get through the pain ones, but the pain ones are supposed to make you drowsy anyway.”
Loki eyes him skeptically.
The front door bangs open.
“I am here! I bring juice and flowers for our returned hero, and also the thanks of a beautiful young maiden!”
“You—!”
Steve kisses Loki firmly then bolts out of the room (not fleeing, just tactical movement in the reverse direction). Olek beams at him.
“No vodka,” Steve says. “I can’t believe I have to tell you that. And make sure he takes his meds.”
“Of course, Steve! I shall be as Cerberus to the underworld, keeping away all that could distract our beloved fire from burning bright once more!”
Steve eyes Olek. Olek only grins wider, giving Steve a friendly push towards the door.
“Go. He will likely fall asleep soon. I promise I won’t even drink in the same room as him.”
“He looks bad.”
“I doubt as bad as when Lethe first saw him. Now go. Bring me back Indian when you return, yes? You know it is his favourite.” Olek’s grin stays in place, but his eyes grow serious and reassuring in equal measure--a reminder that for all his jokes, Loki is also Olek’s friend and Olek is just as concerned for Loki as Steve.
“Right. Indian. I can do that.”
Steve leaves, closing the door on the sound of Olek’s cheer and Loki’s much quieter responses.
XXXXXX
Generally, ‘later’ in Loki’s terms tends towards weeks. Loki wants Steve to forget, wants to see how far he can push, wants to see if Steve will pry—but also decide what he wants to say. Steve understands; he's the same way sometimes, though he tends more towards just needing to figure out what to say and less towards poking things with a stick.
So he’s more than a little flat-footed when not even a full week later Loki brings it up again.
“It all makes sense you know.” Steve catches sight of a well-worn note, Loki’s fingers tracing elegant handwriting. Steve pauses putting away his sketchbook. “How she phrased it.”
Loki’s face is as still as the air before a storm.
“I should have realized.”
A sound, laugh and sob, strangled and pained. Steve crouches down by the couch, takes one of Loki’s hands. He presses a soft kiss to Loki’s fingertips.
“This is better than death,” he reminds gently.
That noise again. Steve doesn’t flinch or frown, though he wants to.
“It is,” he says firmly. “Maybe some days are worse than others, but this is better. You are better for it.”
“What does it matter? There is no… no… no ‘being worthy,’ no hammer to lift. It doesn’t matter at all.”
Steve takes a deep breath and ignores the stab of pain. Pushes back his own hurt and the flare of anger.
He gets it.
He wants to go home, too, sometimes. Wanted it most when the loss was fresh. This is likely worse for Loki, to have lost and lose again because of course this would end and Loki would be taken back to Asgard once more.
Of course.
Loki is looking at him. His face is still still, eyes aware of what he’s said and the implications, glimmering at the potential of a fight.
Steve kisses Loki’s hand once more before he laces their fingers together.
“That little girl, Matilda, would be dead right now.” Loki frowns. “And you wouldn’t know Olek or Lethe or Sam or Sylvia. There wouldn’t be burnt pancakes or trips to the beach. Your head would still be abuzz all the time. You’d probably still think yourself a monster all the time instead of only some of the time.
“And maybe that doesn’t really matter to you,” maybe I don’t matter to you (Loki’s selfishness must be rubbing off), “but I think you might be throwing the babe out with the bathwater.”
They stare at each other. Moments like this, Steve has no idea what Loki will do.
“You are the singularly most unfair person I’ve ever met,” Loki finally huffs, leaning his forehead against Steve’s.
“I know.”
“If you had said but one word about yourself…”
“I know.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“It’s not about deserving, Loki. That’s not how we work.”
They move and shift until Steve ends up on the couch and Loki resting against him. Steve is sure it hurts but doesn’t tell Loki not to (sometimes, it isn’t about comfortable and instead about comfort; he’s done the same after being injured). He’s going to be late. The group will understand and save him a seat and beer.
“I note you say nothing about not deserving me.”
Steve kisses the top of Loki’s head.
“Stop trying to pick a fight you.”
“Sorry.”
Then
“I miss it. Them. And they’re gone.”
Steve holds Loki as he sobs, deep breath-stealing things, runs his fingers through Loki’s hair, and stays silent.