Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He registers the red first.

For a moment that seems right, but then he registers it is the wrong red. Not the red of Natasha’s hair, dark burnt copper, but shiny and over-bright, like the red of a child’s candy. There’s no Natasha’s voice accompanying it, either, soothing him away from any panic that could lead to the return of the Hulk. It’s just Bruce, alone. Hard floor. Harsh, panting breaths that he desperately tries to slow.

He closes his eyes. Counts to three. Counts to three again.

Opens them.

There’s white too. Red and white stripes. 

His first thought is that this is some strange room in Tony’s tower -- the result of a prank, maybe, which he wouldn’t put past Tony Stark. The explanation soothes him. To his left is a shelf full of strangely shaped bottles of varying colors that could be alcohol. He looks to his right -- the same. That fits too. This room screams Tony Stark.

He pushes himself to his knees and then his feet.

“JARVIS,” he says, quietly.

No response.

JARVIS always responds.

“JARVIS,” he says louder, even though it shouldn’t make a difference. 

He’s naked. He always is after a transformation, and he’s gotten used to it, but the silence and the unfamiliarity of the room have him longing for clothes. He looks around -- surely, if Tony had put him here after the mess in Sokovia, he would have given him clothes. Prank or no. 

There aren’t any.

He does, however, finally register the source of light: a window, one of many. A window means more information, means context for the setting he’s found himself in, so he walks towards it. The floor is smooth and cold beneath his bare toes. It’s grounding but also disconnecting, a texture just slightly wrong even though he can’t pinpoint why. 

He glances out. Blinks, rapidly, not quite able to process what he’s seeing. Surely -- 

And then the realization crashes in and he feels his knees go weak.

Because that horizon is not New York.

(That horizon is not even -- not even -- no, not yet, can’t think of that yet, one-two-three, one-two-three)

Towering, narrow buildings stretch higher than he can see, glass on metal on a million clashing colors, brilliant turquoise and rusted pink and sunset orange. Flying ships zip in and out of view, not airplanes but much smaller, quick and nimble, boasting single riders or pairs of them. Swirling purple-black holes lord above it all, with ragged edges, as though they’d been forcefully torn into the sky. If it is a sky, because it doesn’t look like the sky, doesn’t look like his sky. And can’t he almost, blurrily, remember the quinjet? 

He can feel the Hulk surge up beneath his skin, like a tidal wave, riding the high of his fear and confusion and oh fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck , and it’s only years of practice that lets him shove his other-self down and away, lets him breathe. One-two-three. 

Two three.

Three.

Bruce doesn’t know where the fuck he is, but it certainly isn’t Earth.

_

He should be moving, he knows. That’s what the other Avengers would do. That’s what he should be doing -- searching for clues, searching for exits, searching for anything that could tell him where he is (but how is he supposed to know where he is if nothing he knows matters anymore--)

He should be moving. Instead he’s sitting on the floor with his back to the window, staring at the wrong color of red.

He’s breathing. And he’s counting. 

It hasn’t been long. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty.

It’s been at least thirty minutes when he hears footsteps, and then an unfamiliar voice is calling out, “Hey, big guy, you ready?”

He jerks his head up instinctively, his body tensing before he forcibly makes his shoulders relax. He’s calm. He’s calm .

A woman comes swaggering around the corner in strange blue armor, a mix of leather and black protective gear, hand swinging an empty bottle. Her eyes are dark, and her hair is darker, tied back sloppily; she has white markings that contrast her tanned face, and the markings scrunch up in shock when she sees him before quickly smoothing out again. She eyes his lack of clothes but doesn’t say anything.

“And you are?” she asks.

He’s stupid enough to answer. “Banner. Bruce. Bruce Banner, I mean.”

What else is he supposed to say?

“Where’s the green guy?” She tosses the bottle into the air and catches it, the picture of unconcern -- if Bruce couldn’t see the hint of worry hiding in the furrow of her eyebrows. “He run off somewhere? Not like him.”

The green guy.

“You know the Hulk?”

“Have you been living under a rock or something?” she tosses the bottle again, but this time lets it fall. It shatters. Bruce flinches and the woman smirks. “Everyone knows him. Grandmaster’s favorite and all. Which you should know, considering you’re in his chambers, so I’ll ask again -- where is he? And how did you get here?”

“I don’t know how I got here,” he says, because it’s true. The woman rolls her eyes.

“And Hulk?”

“I don’t --” he says, then trails off. “I mean --”

She interrupts him.

“Grandmaster’s gonna be pissed,” she says, right before she darts towards him, one hand dipping into the folds of her clothes with serpentine speed before emerging to clamp firmly onto his neck, the force behind her touch accompanied by the sharp bite of metal. He cries out and lurches back, but not before she’s already releasing him, waving a little square panel as casually as the bottle earlier -- tauntingly, in front of his face.

“Don’t be a baby about it,” she says, right before pressing a button on the panel that makes his world go black.

_

He wakes in a chair in a room that is simultaneously different and exactly the same -- the same in that it is not familiar, in that it does not prove it was all a bad dream, but different in general color and layout. More blues now, with hints of yellow. Still almost childish in feel.

Instinctively, he jerks up his arm to rub his eyes, only to find he can’t move it. When his vision focuses, he finds, furthermore, that he is not alone -- the same woman is there as before. She’s accompanied by a stout woman clad in burnished yellow, whose stony face bears similar white markings -- but Bruce has difficulty examining her, as his attention is unequivocally drawn to one of the most extravagant men he’s ever seen.

The man is wearing a floor-length robe that is not only gold, but also blue and red and sparkly , and he’s floating on a platform about a foot above the ground, as though he can’t be bothered to walk around like ordinary people. He’s holding a cartoonish-looking staff with a blue ornament on top. It looks like a child’s toy, only he’s very clearly not a child. He’s old , although for some reason Bruce is struggling to pin down an approximate age. He’s got white-grey hair and intense eyes, pinned directly on Bruce, and Bruce shivers because those eyes aren’t normal . There’s something wrong about them. Crazy. Like he’s dissecting him, not merely examining him.

 On the plus side, Bruce isn’t naked anymore -- he’s wearing plain, airy grey clothes that do little in the way of warmth, but at least he’s covered.

“Scrapper 142 here says that your name is, um, Banner, correct?”

His throat is sandpaper dry. “Yes,” he answers.

“She also said that she, hmm, she found you in the room of my beloved Champion, just as you are now, just sitting there, isn’t that the strangest thing? Isn’t it strange, Topaz?”

“Indeed,” says the short, stocky woman in yellow, whose age also isn’t quite clicking in Bruce’s mind. It’s like the universe just gave her something approximate -- like, “middle-age” -- and forgot to specify exactly where she falls on that rather large spectrum. It’s disconcerting. He’s decidedly not a fan.

The man grins widely at her, an expression she doesn’t return, although he doesn’t seem bothered, keeping that same beaming smile as he turns back to Bruce.  “You see, most of Scrapper, of Scrapper 142’s finds, they come from the scrapyard, from the wormholes, see? But you’re different, because we found you just right in the middle of my home . And even worse --” he glances at Topaz here -- “even worse, you were in the room of my Champion ! And my Champion is missing! I was very, you understand here, I was very distressed when Scrapper 142 told me this.”

Bruce doesn’t respond.

“Normally I’d put you in the Arena to face my Champion,” the man continues, skimming right over the pause as though it wasn’t even there. “But you see, the problem is, the problem is there is no Champion, so we can’t do that, can we?”

“No, Grandmaster,” says the first woman. Scrapper 142.

“You know who would be perfect ,” wonders Grandmaster ( the Grandmaster?) out loud, as if just thinking of something, but his face says he’s already made a decision. “Lolo. He’s got that, he’s got his magic sparkles, yes? He can find my Champion for me.”

“I don’t know if that’s in Lackey’s skill set,” Scrapper 142 says, dry. The suggestion almost seems to annoy her.  “He’s just new. Doesn’t make him special. In fact, he’s a liar too, so I personally wouldn’t trust a word he says. I’d find your Champion faster.”

“Nonsense,” laughs the Grandmaster. He waves at her absently, a few flicks of his fingers. Apparently even a full hand motion is too much for him to bother with. “Go, go. Go find him.”

Scrapper 142 doesn’t object, at least audibly, but somehow her swaying walk out towards the door (the door is to the left, to the left, not that it matters when he’s so decisively trapped) conveys sarcasm. 

Bruce takes the opportunity to speak.

 “I’m really sorry, I don’t know how I got here, I swear. I didn’t mean to do whatever you think I did. Desperately: “I don’t even know where I am.” He laughs, nervous. The Grandmaster laughs back at him. The sound echoes unsettlingly.

“Why, you’re on Sakaar, of course. Didn’t you get the intro? Everyone is supposed to get the intro. Topaz, why didn’t he get the intro?”

“I don’t know,” says Topaz. 

“You know I don’t like it when you don’t know things! Because then I don’t know things! You know that. Don’t say that.”

“Sorry,” says Topaz.

“Well, Bannister, Sakaar is a planet for -- hmm, lost things. Lost people. Clearly, as you seem to be very lost, aren’t you?”

Bruce had something that he was going to say, but he loses track it after the word “planet”. It’s a small word but it’s dizzying in the enormity of its meaning. He can feel his face pale at the confirmation, can barely feel his tongue as it trips out: “Planet?”

The Grandmaster looks irritated. “Yes, planet. Sakaar.”

“Not Earth?”

“Earth? You mean Terra?”

It’s at that moment that Scrapper 142 chooses to waltz back into the room, still looking mildly irked -- but very suddenly Bruce can't bring himself to care about whatever inconvenience the woman thinks she's been subjected to, because --

Oh fuck.

Bruce loses what little color he had left as the man beside her meets his eyes.

It’s Loki.

Chapter Text

“Lolo!” cries the Grandmaster, swooping his arms through the air as if in welcome. The floating platform he’s been standing on descends for the first time, and he steps off, walking over to place a hand on Loki’s shoulder. To Bruce’s shock, the man doesn’t stab him for it -- instead, he smiles, and if the expression looks forced it’s only to Bruce’s eyes, who is well-versed in the art of faking happiness.

“Grandmaster,” greets Loki. He is still not shaking the hand from his shoulder, but he looks tense. “Who is this?”

Bruce’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. Loki knows who he is. 

Loki, still staring at him, appears to be trying to communicate something with just his eyes -- maybe go with it , but like hell is Bruce going to listen to him .

Or maybe he will. It’s a bad sign when, of the people in the room, the psychopath who invaded Earth isn’t the one giving him the biggest creeps.

That spot is reserved for the Grandmaster, who is now twirling the end of Loki’s hair with single-minded intent, looking absolutely fascinated by -- what? The texture, maybe? The grease that must be positively clinging to the finger he’s twisting it around? Although the hair itself does look at least a little cleaner now. Maybe he’s washing it more frequently.

Focusing on the absurdity of the thought helps Bruce to feel just a little less hysterical. 

“Grandmaster,” hints Scrapper 142. “If you’re not too busy playing with your new toy…”

“Oh, excuse me,” says the Grandmaster, finally stepping away. He beams at Loki and then at Bruce. Then back at Loki.

“You see, Lolo, my Champion -- well, you haven’t met my Champion, yet, but rest assured he was very dear to me -- he disappeared. And when we came to his room, lo and behold, this strange man was there instead! Banner, his name is. He claims not to know how he got there, but I think --” and here he lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I think he’s lying. And, well. You said you were good with that sort of thing.”

“I did,” says Loki.

Fuck.

“Well, that’s solved it, hasn’t it? I’ll give him to you for a bit -- three days, say, is that enough? And you can get my answers for me, and as a bonus, prove to Scrapper 142 here why I keep you around! It’s more than just your pretty face.” Here he winks. Even witnessing it makes Bruce feel faintly slimy.

Prove to Scrapper 142, and prove to him , the Grandmaster didn’t say, but Bruce hears it nonetheless.

Apparently so does Loki, because he smiles tightly. “That’s enough time.”

“Wonderful!” The Grandmaster claps like an excited child before grabbing Loki’s shoulder again to steer him towards the door, and Loki goes without protest. Something about it makes Bruce’s stomach turn.

Loki -- from what little Bruce admittedly knows about him, having made his acquaintance from one side of an attempted invasion -- is not the type to go passively where he’s pushed.

As he leaves, the Grandmaster waves at Scrapper 142. “Take Bandana to Lolo’s room, yes?”

_

Somehow, through some miracle (although to be honest, Bruce isn’t sure if it’s a miracle or a curse) the Hulk has not yet made his reappearance.

Because of course he hasn’t. Of course, the one time Bruce actually needs him, actually almost-hopes for him to break him out of this limb-trapping chair contraption and somehow, somewhen, get him somewhere away --

(away where , screams the little voice in his head that Bruce has been ignoring)

-- of course that one time is the time that he seems to have vanished. Despite the steadily boiling pot of panic in Bruce’s stomach. Despite the trapped-bird flutter of his heart against his chest. For whatever reason, for what is probably the first time in Hulk’s existence, he’s not taking advantage of the dull terror pounding throughout Bruce’s entire body.

Take him to Lolo’s room. Loki’s room. Loki’s room.

Loki, the bag-of-cats invader of New York. Loki with the mad eyes and the taunting smirk. Loki, leading an army of aliens that seemed to pour endless from the sky. Hundreds dead. Loki, who Hulk had pummeled into the ground --

Bruce is so unquestionably dead.

He’d almost find it funny, but seeing as he is currently right-in-this-moment being wheeled in the direction of Loki’s apparent room, it is hardly a laughing matter.

He’s so caught up in dread that he’s almost forgotten it’s Scrapper 142 behind him until she speaks.

“I’m curious,” she says, conversationally, nudging the back of his head to make sure he’s aware she’s addressing him. As if there is anyone else she could possibly be addressing; they’re alone in the hallway. “I’m curious,” she says again, “On how such a tiny, pathetic specimen managed to force his way past the security of not only the Grandmaster’s palace, but also sneak into one of his most well-guarded rooms -- and not only that! You managed to steal away one of his most precious champions.”

Or at least, she’s trying to sound conversational. There’s anger brewing beneath the delicate casualty of her tone, and she’s not doing a super job at concealing it.

What was it she called Hulk? The green guy?

That sounds, Bruce realizes belatedly, almost like a nickname. Like when Tony calls Thor “big guy”, or deems Clint “Legolas”.

Is it possible she and Hulk were friends ? Or at least the closest approximation his alter-ego is able to manage?

“And on top of that,” Scrapper 142 continues, “You managed to also get yourself caught . Now, why would you go to all that trouble, only to stay put at the scene of the crime? I mean, you were literally sitting there naked .” 

Bruce doesn’t reply. He doesn’t trust himself not to give himself away.

He’s never been a great liar.

(And now he’s going to Loki , Loki who is the actual legitimate God of Lies, according to Thor. Loki who will force him to tell all of the Avengers’ secrets before leaving him dead or utterly, completely broken --)

“One almost thinks you wanted to get caught.”

She pauses, as though hopeful this time he’ll answer. He’s not that stupid; he stays silent.

“Well,” she says, finally. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we? For all I dislike him, Lackey really is disturbingly skilled at sniffing out people’s motivations. It’s how he’s lasted this long here. Weasel that he is, the Grandmaster still really likes him.” She barks a laugh. “At least for now.”

Bruce doesn’t have time to parse the meaning of that. Even as she’s speaking, the hovering chair is slowing, turning. It gives one final jolt as it comes to a stop before an utterly nondescript door.

He feels his stomach drop to his toes.

They’ve arrived.

_

Except the anticipation does not actually end, because Loki is not actually here . As in, present in his bedroom. Which makes sense, sort of; he can’t possibly be in there all the time. Bruce just hadn’t been able to rationalize that past his violent, pulsing dread.

“Oh, yes,” Scrapper 142 had added, leaning lazily on the doorframe as she directed Bruce’s hover chair the final few crucial feet into the room. “He won’t be back for a while yet. I imagine he’s quite…occupied.”

Another knowing half-smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, before, innocently, she asked no one in particular: “I suppose you’ll just have to wait here, won’t you? You don’t mind?” And without waiting for an answer, she swept out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Leaving Bruce alone in Loki’s…room.

The thought makes his skin crawl.

Although, glancing around…it’s not what he expected.

He’d been sort of subconsciously bracing himself for some caricature supervillain’s layer. Like chains hanging from the walls for Loki’s information collecting , and strange experimental potions/poisons, and probably black and green walls too, just because that was Loki’s thing . Maybe a gold throne in the center of it all.

On second thought, he realizes those were pretty stupid assumptions.

Loki is a guest here in the Grandmaster’s home. Bruce hadn’t quite settled with that, before, but this room makes it abundantly clear.

He has the same garish floors as the room Bruce woke up in: red and white stripes, despite the fact that red is probably not his thing at all . Red, Bruce knows, is Thor’s color. Thor’d explained that once, briefly -- he can’t remember exactly what he’d said, but Thor’d been firm about the fact that Asgardians (especially the royal family) each had colors. Red was his, just as green was Loki’s.

Bruce can’t imagine Loki’d be happy about that reminder staring up at him every day.

And it’s not as though the floors are the only red in the room, either. The curtains (shimmery and silky and decisively closed) are also red, and so is the bedspread, draped over an ordinary-looking wooden frame in the corner. There’s a strange, metal spiral that only Bruce’s friendship with Tony allows him to tentatively identify as art revolving in one corner, and a plain wardrobe standing stiffly in the other. All in all, there is nothing wrong with the room; it comes across as belonging to a somewhat eccentric hotel.

There’s nothing wrong with the room, but it certainly doesn’t look like Loki, and he finds it somewhat surprising that the man he remembers as so set in his superiority hasn’t changed it to fit his “superior” taste.

His mind flits back to the Grandmaster’s hand on Loki’s shoulder and Loki’s complacency in following it. There’s something unsettling about it -- beyond the unsettling feeling of the whole situation, that is.

Who exactly is the Grandmaster, if he’s able to establish so much power over someone like Loki ?

Loki, he thinks with dawning realization, might not actually be the largest of Bruce’s concerns right now, which is terrifying to contemplate.

(Although Loki is still a pretty big concern. What with the whole probably definitely pretty fucking furious about the Hulk thing. And, you know, the death count.)

Eventually, Bruce stops feeling terrified and starts feeling restless. He’s well aware that human beings (or, well, close enough ) are only able to stay on edge for so long, and the monotony is beginning make his skin itch -- only he can’t scratch, can’t even move his arms to relieve the boredom. He counts the stripes on the floor. He does his best to squint through the shimmering curtains. He finds himself examining the little metal sculpture in the corner of the room with single-minded focus, if only because there is nothing better to do.

Delicate metal twists form a figure eight that, as it spins in the air, gives the illusion of movement. The silver seems to ripple, snake-like; he watches it cycle and repeat more times than he cares to admit. Twist, dip, repeat. His eyes begin to blur with concentration.

Then a faint, creaking rattle shatters the silence, and the tension floods back into Bruce’s body like it never left. His eyes snap to the door, and he watches as it begins to shift, slowly, laboriously. Or maybe it just feels that way: the seconds stretching into minutes, hours, days.

Then the moment ends.  The door swings fully open.

And Loki steps into the room.

Chapter Text

Loki looks…off.

That’s the only way to describe it, and Bruce is well aware that the one word is wholly inadequate. But bag-of-cats is off; he’s not glaring, not scoffing a laugh at the situation, not basking in having such a clear, unquestionable advantage over one of his enemies.

He’s just standing there, in the open doorway, face unreadable. Even his eyes don’t give anything away this time; before, during the invasion, they’d been wide-open windows, Loki unable to hide the crazy even if he tried. That wildness is gone now, or very well-restrained.

He’s restrained.

It’s off.

He’s examining Bruce. Bruce examines him in turn, noting that his hair’s messed up -- not overtly, and he’d clearly smoothed it out again, but it’s not the same as it was before and there are a couple of strands that stubbornly refuse to fall into place.

(Great going, Bruce -- like analysis of Loki’s fucking hair is something he should be wasting precious seconds on--)

(Why can’t Loki do something, anything, to end the suspense, break the tension --)

(No, nonono, he doesn’t want that, he wants Loki to just disappear, can he just not be here right now --)

Then, just when the silence seems to be stretching an uncomfortably long time, Loki says, “Hello, Bruce.”

It’s such a casual thing to say, in such an absurd situation, that Bruce has to fight the instinctive, terrified giggle that bubbles in his throat.

“I must confess I hadn’t expected to see you here,” Loki continues, and then he blinks, as though puzzled. Bruce realizes it’s the first time he’s done so since he arrived.

Hoarsely, Bruce answers, “I think the feeling’s mutual.”

He half-expects a spiteful blast of magic, a snake-quick dagger in his gut, something for the insolence of having dared to speak. It is not forthcoming. 

Instead, Loki steps farther into the room, eyeing something on the sleeve of his shirt (is there a stain? Bruce hopes fervently it isn’t blood, but he doesn’t have much faith) with faint disgust before seemingly coming to a decision. He paces over to the wardrobe and flings it open with more force than strictly necessary, talking to Bruce even as he rifles through a variety of ostentatious shirts varying shades of the rainbow. Mostly blues and purples, interspersed with a few yellows, and fewer greens. “I’ve been tasked with extracting from you the whereabouts of the Grandmaster’s champion, how you got in, so on and so forth. But I think we both already know the answers to those questions, don’t we, Bruce?”

When he turns back, he’s holding a purple tunic with shimmery silver inside the sleeves, a combination that toes the line between bold and gaudy. “Excuse me a moment, won’t you?” He barely glances at Bruce before quickly ducking into the attached bathroom, new clothes in hand.

Bruce gapes at the closed door. He thinks he’s probably discovered a new form of shock, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the space beneath the door, where he can see the vaguely shifting shadows of what must be Loki moving around.

There’s rustling. The thwap of something hitting the wall -- the old clothes? It seems like a lot of aggression for some stained fabric, but it is Loki, and when has he ever been reasonable?

Maybe this isn’t happening. Maybe he’s cracked, and this is all a figment of his imagination.

It’s probably past time.

The light from the crack beneath the doorway shifts. Then Loki emerges, now clad in purple, smoothing down the sleeves of the still-ugly outfit. Somehow, though, the way Loki carries it -- regal, confidently, like he’s certain it suits him -- makes it work.

Great. Now that they’ve gotten the spontaneous outfit change out of the way, they can move onto the real reason Loki’s here, although Bruce is struggling to remember what he was going to say. He feels off-kilter, adrift amid the sea of broken expectations.

This was certainly not how Bruce had expected his reunion with Loki, Invader of New York, to start.

Fuck it. He has to do something.

“So,” Bruce says, because apparently he is an idiot whose mouth starts running before sense can catch up with him, “Last time I saw you you were trying to kill everyone. Where are you at these days?”

Will there be a dagger now, he wonders as Loki’s mouth quirks slightly, dangerously. It’s the first real smile he’s seen on him so far, and of course it comes during the question about him killing everyone, because -- of course it does. “It varies from moment to moment.”

(Bruce is so dead.)

Except maybe not yet, because then Loki’s continuing, almost conversationally: “And the beast? Your counterpart? Where is he at, these days? Because from what I’ve gathered, he’s spent decades here as the Grandmaster’s prized gladiator, without a hint of -- well, you -- in sight.”

He blinks innocently. It’s a jarring expression; there is nothing innocent about Loki, and the fact that he would pretend --

Well. Currently, Bruce is too busy feeling like the floor is falling out beneath him to care.

“Decades?”

That can’t be right. Bruce ages with the Hulk, or at least he’s pretty sure he does, and he’s pretty certain he isn’t seventy. He doesn’t feel seventy; when he looks down at his hands, abruptly frantic, he doesn’t look seventy, either -- his skin has only the normal amount of creases and wrinkles.

And he’d know. He’d know if he spent decades as the Hulk. 

Wouldn’t he?

And he can’t forget that Loki is a notorious liar. He’s probably doing what he does best and lying.

(Why, then, does Bruce have the horrible and inexplicable feeling that he’s telling the truth?)

(Champion. Scrapper 142 having an almost-friendship with the Champion, and friendship doesn’t happen overnight -- and how long does it take someone on an alien planet to become a Champion?

Certainly not decades. Certainly not.)

“Yes. Decades,” Loki shrugs. “I wouldn’t know, personally. My own arrival was fairly recent.”

He’s waiting for Bruce to ask. Bruce doesn’t give him the satisfaction, sure there’s a catch. Every word exchanged here has hidden barbs, hidden hurts. That’s what Loki does.

Although he can’t imagine what advantage Loki would get from revealing more information about himself, rather than simply forcing it out of Bruce. He has the ability; Bruce is still quite thoroughly trapped. Why, then, doesn’t he? What’s the point of this almost-polite question-for-question?

What kind of game is he playing?

“Thor said you were dead,” Bruce says finally. 

“Well, Thor always was rather easy to trick. A simple illusion --” Loki waves his hand as though to demonstrate, although nothing happens, “A few dramatic words, and he never even thought to check.”

Is that bitterness?

“And so -- what? You came here to hide out?”

(Don’t think about where here is. Don’t, don’t, don’t.)

“Not quite,” Loki answers. Previously he’d stayed by the bathroom door, across the room, about as far from Bruce’s chair as possible; now he paces closer. Bruce deliberately, desperately, does not flinch back. “Sakaar was…an accident. And you -- well, your presence has upset things quite a bit. But I am nothing if not adaptable.”

That is not reassuring whatsoever.

“That Grandmaster guy will be pissed if you kill me,” Bruce tries. 

Loki laughs. “The Grandmaster would forget your death in a second. He is much older than I, or really any Asgardian; your little ant-life means little to him, I promise you. Nevertheless, I have no intention of killing you. You ought to be thinking yourself lucky.”

“Lucky? You’re still going to torture me.” Like ripping off a band-aid: best to get it out in the open. He hopes. “That’s what he told you to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Loki admits freely. “But I won’t.”

The constant shifting of expectations, will he/won’t he, is going to give Bruce whiplash.

Nothing makes sense.

Loki’s alive. He’s not quite as crazy as before. He’s not going to hurt Bruce, or so he says -- Bruce doesn’t trust the word of a man known as Liesmith.

The both of them are stranded on an alien planet ruled by a man (being) older than the average Asgardian, and Asgardians live to be pretty damn old, as far as Bruce is aware.

Oh, and the Hulk’s a Champion of some sort. Apparently.

“Why should I believe you? About any of this? Actually,” he adds with a surge of hope, “How do I know this isn’t the same kind of illusion you gave Thor to make him think you died? How do I know you’re not -- messing with my head, or whatever? You’ve done it before.”’

He almost finds himself wishing for that, and isn’t that just messed up?

Loki, unsympathetic, stops that long shot with a single raised eyebrow. “It’s flattering you think me that powerful. Contrary to some beliefs, I am not. You’ll have to come to terms with the fact that you have somehow managed interplanetary travel. Well done. You’re one of the first Midgardians to do so.” He gives a slow, mocking clap.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bruce says. “I don’t know how I did.”

“That makes it worse,” Loki informs him. “What kind of idiot --”

He stops and takes what appears to be a calming breath. It’s surreal.

He starts again. “Besides my oaf of a brother, I’ve never quite met anyone who --”

Another breath. Finally: “Unfortunately, I’m stuck with you, and as I have precious few allies in this dump, I must use what I have. I happen to be in a somewhat uncomfortable position, and I could use the assistance of your other-self. In return, of course, I will return you to your precious Midgard. Do we have a deal?”

He’s looking at Bruce like he expects it will be just that easy. Bruce stares at him in disbelief.

Allies? 

“Last time Hulk saw you, he used you to smash a gaping hole in the floor of the penthouse you tried to launch an invasion from,” Bruce reminds him, incredulous. “Why on Earth would he help you?”

(Nevermind Bruce doesn’t even know where Hulk is. Wait, that’s not true. He does, but Hulk’s…muted, somehow. Weaker. A faint hum compared to the cacophony of sound he usually is.)

“I understand our last meeting was less than ideal,” Loki concedes. “Your dislike of me is reasonable. However, you’ll find precious few other avenues of opportunity here. Sakaar is not a kind place even to much stronger species than yours.”

Well, that isn’t at all condescending.

Still, Bruce can’t help the way his heart speeds slightly at the implication. It’s been doing that so often that he should probably be worried about the effects, but he can’t bring himself to add that to his already towering pile of concerns.

“Additionally,” Loki adds sweetly, a shark scenting blood. “The Grandmaster’s still searching for his beloved Champion. It so happens that I know right where he is. Without this deal, what incentive have I to keep that from him? But if you agree to work with me -- and honestly, I’ll be doing the majority of the work anyway -- it can remain our little secret. It’s just a bonus that, in my generosity, I’ll also return you to your friends on Earth.”

He leans forward, now maybe a foot from Bruce’s face, and deliberately meets his eyes. He waits a beat, the warmth of his breath ghosting Bruce’s face, just long enough to let sweat begin to collect on the back of Bruce’s neck. He whispers, “I’ll let you think about it.”

Then he pulls away, and, with a careless wave and a wink, departs the room. 

Chapter Text

Well, Bruce thinks about it.

There isn’t much else to do when you’re literally stuck to a chair. Loki hadn’t been kind enough to release him, and his arms and legs are cramping from the strain of being forced into the same position for such a prolonged period of time. He supposes he shouldn’t complain overmuch; at least he’s still in one peice. All entrails are where they belong, all toes and fingers are accounted for, and his skin is still firmly attached to the correct (and intact!) bones and muscles beneath. He’d been almost certain that wouldn’t be the case when he arrived. He doesn’t even have any extraneous bruises.

He almost thinks that would have been better. At least then he wouldn’t be facing a dilemma he’d never in a million years thought would be a problem: whether or not to trust Loki, however brief Loki’d make it sound like the alliance would be.

On the one hand: Loki’s killed hundreds. He probably intends to use Bruce to kill even more people, sowing chaos and discord and whatever else the proclaimed God of Mischief enjoys, using the Other Guy as some deadly distraction to get out of his “uncomfortable situation”. And those dead people would probably be innocent, and Bruce has killed enough innocents, to be perfectly honest. He gets kind of sick when he lingers on it too much. It’s even worse to think of doing it for Loki’s benefit.

Also, Loki’s history of deceit is well-documented -- who’s to say that after Bruce did everything he was asked, after he stained his hands and conscience an even darker red, that Loki would even uphold his end of the bargain? It’s so much likelier that he won’t; he’s a known liar and has a relationship with sanity about as dependable as the weather forecast. Probably he’ll laugh in Bruce’s face before burying a knife in his gut.

On the other hand: Bruce is stranded on an alien planet ruled by a man who so far seems even crazier than Loki, and he’s utterly alone, or as alone as it’s possible for someone like him to be. And upon thinking it through, he decides he has little hope in appealing to the moral nature of a man able to control both Hulk and Loki. Scrapper 142, the only other person he’s spoken to, hardly seems to be much better. Bruce can’t be certain everyone else on “Sakaar” isn’t exactly the same, even if he could get out of this chair and search for help. He doesn’t know if any other Sakaarians even know what Earth is, let alone how to get there. 

Without Loki’s help, he will very possibly be stuck here forever. He will die on this messed-up planet. Maybe he’ll die in this very same chair.

That, or the Grandmaster will somehow turn out to be powerful enough to turn him back into the Hulk, and the Hulk will continue to hold the title “Champion”, and Bruce will die anyway. Only the Hulk will be left, reigning destruction, with no one to stop him -- Bruce a very faint presence in his own head, too unaware to even try to force his way out, to pound helplessly at the barrier separating them.

The horror of it is almost too much to contemplate.

(decades, decades, decades --)

He hates it.

He hates how Loki is right.

He really doesn’t have a choice.

He has to at least listen.

Once the decision is made, he spends the next hour or so attempting to justify it.

Loki is Thor’s brother, right? Thor has told so many stories about the mischievous, helpful, loving brother he used to know -- that man can’t be gone entirely. Thor had certainly seemed convinced that some better version of Loki had returned to him in his dying moments, and none of the other Avengers had had the heart to try and dispute him. If the guy was dead now, what did it matter? Even Clint had just pressed his lips tightly together when the topic came up, saying through the barest slit in his gritted teeth, “I’m going on a walk,” and exiting the room before temper could get the better of him. Their collective pity for Thor had momentarily outweighed their hatred of Loki.

But, clearly, for Thor, there had been someone worth mourning. Bruce just has to…dig a little. Find that person and bring it out.

(He steadfastly ignores the fact that Loki had never actually been dead, and had instead apparently been living it up on other planets, careless of the weeks Thor wore funeral black and then the months after that he dragged himself through life as a listless, despondent shell of his normally cheerful self. For all Thor loves Loki, Loki certainly doesn’t seem to give a shit about Thor.)

Loki is Thor’s brother, right? They were raised the same way. Thor’s a good person, even if he’s a little out-of-touch culturally. He’s always meant well.

Surely, somewhere, Loki’s got a bit of that goodness, just through association. Surely.

And! And he hadn’t used his newfound fake-death-freedom to come back and murder the Avengers in their beds! Possibly just due to lack of opportunity, but Bruce is going to take it as a good sign. He’s found himself woefully low on good signs; he needs to grasp any that come his way with both hands and not examine them too closely, just to keep himself stable and coherent.

He’s going to have to work with Loki.

He’s going to have to work with Loki.

Whatever the powers-that-be are, he’s pretty sure they hate him. He doesn’t know why; he doesn't think he’s done anything bad enough to warrant this, unless they’re still punishing him for Hulk.

Which is…fair. He would too. 

(He’s going to have to work with Loki.)

The door swings back open, causing him once more to jerk in (ineffectual) startlement.

He really hates this chair. He’s starting to also hate the door, which is stupid, because it’s a perfectly ordinary door. It’s just the person who keeps coming through it that’s not.

Loki’s stance is confident, intimidating, his tone tauntingly assured as he says, “Has your little mind worried enough about it? Have you come to a decision?”

Bruce hates him.

Or he would, if he wasn’t watching closely, and didn’t see the same strange expression in his eyes; that glassy, poorly-hidden desperation, ugly and so at odds with his posture and voice. Loki is lying, if not outright. He is not nearly so careless as he is pretending.

He needs Bruce, and that makes Bruce feel just the slightest bit better himself as he answers, “What’s your plan?”

Something funny twists in his chest as, still examining Loki carefully, he notes the way the man’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly in relief. “I’ve spoken with the Grandmaster,” he says. “I’ve told him you’ve revealed that a friend of yours was a warrior in the Arena, brutally killed by his Champion, and that you released him in revenge. I’ve told him you are nothing special -- a bit dull -- and that I suspect you had outside help in reaching the Hulk that you’ve not revealed. I’ve told him you had no plan besides that, and no idea where the Hulk would be now, and I’ve done my best to direct his attention away from you and towards the search for that creature.” He spreads his arms wide, the silver inner sleeves flashing obnoxiously. “You are welcome to thank me at any time.”

It’s still Loki, and Bruce is still pretty close to terrified, even though he’s mostly managed to shove that aside, so he says, “Thank you.”

(The Hulk’s been killing people. He’s the Grandmaster’s Champion and he’s been killing people. Oh God, decades, he’s been killing people for decades, how many -- how many -- killing people for decades in an Arena for sport--)

“Of course,” Loki adds, an afterthought, “That only means the Grandmaster’s decided you’re not very interesting anymore, and he tends to put the things and people he’s not interested in into the Arena, in the hopes that at least their death might provide him entertainment. He loves to be amused, you know, and people like you all tend to die ridiculously amusing deaths.” He shrugs, then looks to Bruce, waiting for a reaction.

Bruce waits. He doesn’t expect Loki would have gone to all this trouble just to let him die on the sands of gladiatorial combat.

Loki sighs, as though Bruce has denied him some anticipated fun. “I’ve managed to stop that, too, by claiming I’d like to keep you as a sort of personal servant, to clean my room and such. The Grandmaster’s somewhat concerned with keeping me -- within his good graces, so he’s allowed it. You’re welcome for that, too.”

Bruce says, “Thank you,” again, barely registering that he’s talking. The whole interaction feels surreal. 

This is Loki.

But Loki’s acting so strangely that he’s almost starting to forget that. It’s like he’s separated them unconsciously in his mind: there is the Loki from New York, the uncontrollable mass murderer, and then there is the Loki of this strange planet Sakaar, who is so scared of something he’s willing to make deals with a man who houses a monster under his skin, a man who has proven to possess the ability to make him a stunned and battered addition to the floor of a billionaire’s tower.

He wonders if this is how Thor feels all the time. Like he’s struggling to reconcile that two different people he’s met are really one and the same.

Then he realizes something.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he accuses. Loki had slipped out of a proper response gracefully and effortlessly he almost hadn’t noticed. 

Loki blinks in pure innocence. “What question?”

“What’s your plan? You said you needed me to go through with it. Or the Hulk, or whatever,” he corrects himself belatedly.

Nice going, Bruce. No one would ever think he’s got seven PHDs from the way he’s been talking ever since Loki showed up.

“I need the Hulk to appear very publicly,” Loki says abruptly. “He doesn’t need to know he’s helping me; I won’t be there. But he’ll be a very large, very public distraction --” as Bruce suspected; nice to know his recently unreliable reasoning was right about this, at least -- “and I’m sure the Grandmaster will be so excited when faced with the grand return of his Champion he’ll rush there at once. Or I’ll be there to incentivize him, if he doesn’t. I don’t have the power to kill the Grandmaster on my own. He’s a being beyond, much older than even Asgardians, and -- but the Hulk was able to damage me, so hopefully, if I cast an illusion over the Grandmaster so that he appears to have my form, he’ll be able to damage the Grandmaster as well. Or at least wound him enough that I can then do the best I can to finish off what remains.”

All this he says in a rush of breath, as though if he says it fast enough, Bruce won’t be able to hear him. 

Bruce gawks. Loki sounds almost self-conscious, but also: what the hell? “And then what?”

“And then I return you to Midgard, and I leave. Or I take his position on this cursed hunk of scrap. Or I hide for a bit while the new politics settle in. Does it matter? You’ll have what you want, and we’ll never see each other again. We can spend less than a week planning it and then it’ll be over. Doesn’t that please you?”

“That’s the stupidest plan I’ve heard in a long time,” Bruce says blankly. “And I’ve lived with Tony Stark.”

It’s the sort of thing he’d say freely to any of his teammates, and it’s only once he’s said it that he remembers Loki is not one of his teammates, and is in fact a murderous alien who currently has Bruce entirely at his mercy. Fortunately, Loki doesn’t seem to take enough offense to run him through the pointy end of some kind of blade. But his face shutters, and his tone is decidedly icy as he replies, “It doesn’t matter if you find it stupid, because its success or failure has no impact on you. It is not for you to decide such things; you cannot comprehend the potential outcomes, because you have no understanding of the full range of my abilities.”

“You said yourself you don’t have the power to take down this Grandmaster on your own,” Bruce says incredulously. “Your ‘plan’ is far too reliant on the Hulk. I don’t have the control over him you seem to think I do.”

Loki dismisses him with a waved hand. “You don’t need to. He clearly hates me. The Grandmaster will look like me. All you have to do is walk your adorable little shared body over to the correct location and let him out, easy as anything.”

That is not correct and Bruce opens his mouth to say so, before realizing that Loki could probably care less about the mental and physical agony that comes with being Hulk and switching courses.

“Also,” he says, “You’re wrong about this having no impact on me. If your little murder attempt fails, you won’t be able to return me to Earth, so I have somewhat of an interest in making sure we have the best shot possible at this. Why do you want to murder the Grandmaster, anyway? Can’t you just leave? Sneak on the nearest spaceship and go?”

That question wasn’t meant to be as incendiary as it clearly is.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Loki hisses, and Bruce pays attention to those eyes and — yes, it’s back in full force, that wild desperation that isn’t even trying to hide anymore. Loki rubs at a spot on his left forearm seemingly unconsciously, and Bruce watches the way the purple fabric of his sleeve ripples beneath his frantic fingers. A nervous tic? “This is the only way, and if you want me to uphold my end of the bargain, you will not question it.”

That only makes Bruce want to question him more.

But this is Loki. So he doesn’t.

“I want a more concrete plan of action,” he says, finally. “I want proof you really can get me back to Earth. And I want out of this chair.”

Loki’s smile teeters far too close to thankful for Bruce’s comfort.

“I think that can be arranged,” he says.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s knees nearly crumple beneath him when he stands up.

He’s so unsteady he almost considers sitting back down in the same god-forsaken chair that caused the issue in the first place -- at least until he sees Loki’s smirk and decides that like hell will he provide him that amusement. Instead, he grits his teeth against the dizziness and subtly flares out his hands for balance.

Or not so subtly, if Loki’s poorly muffled snort is any indication. Bruce fights against the instinctive, embarrassed blush.

Well, fuck him anyway. It’s his fault Bruce is in this predicament -- if Loki’d released him hours ago, he wouldn’t be nearly as bad off. But no -- instead Loki has to make fun of the way Bruce, like any ordinary human, happens to be suffering some of the ordinary side-effects of a long bout of full-body confinement.

And possibly hunger, he reflects, re-examining the weak feeling in his stomach. Now that he’s no longer in abject fear for his life (although he’s still pretty on edge) he can’t attribute that faintness entirely to terror. Plus, it makes unfortunate sense; he can’t remember the last time he ate.

(He ignores the fact that he can’t remember anything about his recent past whatsoever.)

Well, okay, so he’s hungry. That’s the problem; his next objective should be   fixing it. There’s an obvious way to try, he thinks, and he’s already been trampling over so many boundaries he’d never thought he’d so much as poke at with Loki. What’s one more? “I don’t suppose you have a sandwich squirreled away somewhere?” 

Bruce glances around as though a minifridge will have conveniently manifested, then back at Loki, trying to soften the inherent challenge of the words with a mildly deferential expression. It’s probably not necessary, because Loki just shrugs.

Shrugs . You know, like an ordinary human being would.

“I’m afraid not, but I could certainly acquire one for you, upon request. It’s one of very, very few perks on this planet -- I’ve been told to simply ask for what I want and have it delivered. Then again,” he sighs theatrically, “I had that privilege on Asgard, too.”

Bruce is slowly learning to simply let Loki get the not-so-subtle bragging and narcissism out of his system so they can move on to more important things. At least that aspect of his personality has hardly changed since New York, although neither is it necessarily a Loki-specific trait. After all, there has to be a certain kind of (not altogether unfounded) arrogance that becomes pretty normalized when your species was worshipped at one point in time. Thor also has the bad habit of reminding people that he is a God and Prince and whatnot, although it’s usually less intentional, and more just because he’s used to a certain amount of deference he forgets Earth isn’t going to provide.

But again (not that Bruce is in any position to stop him) letting Loki boast serves the purpose of allowing them to move on to More Important Things.

Like Bruce’s sandwich.

“So are are you going to?” Bruce asks. “I know you might not have thought of this, but I won’t be very useful if I keel over out of hunger.”

“You look like you might keel over anyway,” Loki gives Bruce over-exaggerated look up and down as he wrinkles his eyebrows into a line of faux-concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take a nap, maybe use a few of our precious hours to recover? It must have been taxing for such a weak mortal creature to, hmm. Sit.”

Bruce feels secure enough in his evaluation of Loki’s motives (and isn’t that bizarre!) to risk shooting him a glare. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Just checking,” Loki says innocently.

“I’m sure,” Bruce says, dry, but his stomach spoils the effect by letting out a traitorous groan. Now that he’s noticed that gaping empty void where sustenance should be, he can’t stop. Also, does he have to piss? Also, his mouth is pretty dry, some water would be nice, too.

Due to the fact that he’s no longer scared witless, his body’s begun to reawaken to its normal functioning. And it’s apparently determined to make known its displeasure with the way he’s been taking care of it, unaware of the impression it’s causing Bruce to make on his alien captor/ally/whateverthefuckheis.

Well. Well .

“Excuse me,” Bruce says, because it’s too late to pretend, and because this world he’s woken up in is a ridiculous parody of real life. Then, determinedly avoiding eye contact, he heads off to Loki’s bathroom before his mind can spiral its way into second-and-triple guessing. And he’s…not stopped.

He thinks it’s probably a bad sign that he wasn’t really even anticipating the possibility. Of course a normal person wouldn’t stop him, but that’s not the scenario he’s in. Nothing about this is normal .

For fuck’s sake, this is Loki . Why is Bruce struggling so much to remember that?

Being Bruce isn’t working out so well at the moment. He’s feeling pretty compromised, so he tries to imagine what one of the other Avengers would be doing in his shoes.

Why would Nat be in an enemy bathroom? She’d never actually have to use it, being she’s Natasha Romanov and honestly doesn’t seem entirely human some of the time. So she’d be engaging in reconnaissance, probably.

Reconnaissance. Yes. That’s what he’s doing here, he tells himself as he glances around, as though this meager examination of Loki’s bathroom will unlock the answers to his infinite questions. 

It doesn’t. 

Although it does remind him that he’s on an alien planet . To his relief, the setup isn’t so horribly exotic he can’t figure out how it works. There are two things he can fairly confidently label as a toilet and sink, although the layout is ever so slightly off -- the toilet is shaped triangularily, and there’s no hole for anything to…go. When he uses it, however, all liquid disappears before it hits the bottom, so that’s not a problem, apparently. The sink is similar, vanishing the water as soon as it’s done running over Bruce’s hands, and it has buttons instead of handles. But aside from the novelty of being probably one of the first humans to use the alien version (he wonders if the ones on Asgard are similar, or if the strangeness is just a Sakaar thing) the bathroom is just as impersonal as the rest of Loki’s rooms. There are no belongings to be found except for a hairbrush, sitting solitary on a shelf beside the sink, with a few black hairs clinging to the bristles.

And now his brain is stuck on the fact that Loki uses a hairbrush in the mornings. Like Natasha would. Like an ordinary human being , except he’s not human, and yet Bruce is being suddenly bombarded with reminders that Loki’s perhaps not as far away as he’d always thought.

It makes him distinctly uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t want to linger on.

He exits the bathroom faster than he probably should.

Only, when he’s confronted with Loki, waiting with his arms crossed from a standing position beside the bed, he kind of wishes he’d taken his time.

“I ordered your sandwich,” says Loki, because of course he did it during the time when Bruce couldn’t watch him to figure out how , and thus kept his ability to hold that advantage over Bruce’s head.

Currently Bruce is too busy feeling surprised that he actually did it to care.

He imagines telling one of the Avengers, in some hopefully-near future, about the time he got Loki to order him a god-damned sandwich. He imagines Tony’s skyrocketing eyebrows, the slight twitch of Natasha’s lips that will be the only indication of her shock, the way Clint will crow about it for weeks, making sure to ascertain, each time he offered Bruce any food, so much better without the slime all over it, yeah? Steve will take the info with all the professionalism of team leader, but Bruce will see the way he tries to stifle an incredulous laugh.

He wants that so badly he aches.

(decades, decades, decades. What if they’re all --)

( NO .)

“Thanks,” Bruce tells Loki, the only person he has to rely on in the actual present moment.

“You’re welcome,” Loki says, magnanimous. He sweeps out an arm, the picture of a gracious prince, to two chairs and a table Bruce is pretty sure weren’t in front of him a second ago. They look out-of-place; they’re not made of the same garish metal and gleaming plastic-but-not material he’s seen so far on the rest of Sakaar. They’re wooden, with intricate designs of flowers and wolves and suns twining their way up the legs and the back, and Bruce has the sneaking suspicion the set is Asgardian.

So Loki can pull furniture into existence, too. Yet another new ability Bruce is learning about only now.

That’s…great.

Why hadn’t the Avengers ever made Thor give them a debrief on all of his crazy brother’s magic powers, again?

“I assume you can make those things disappear, too,” Bruce says finally. Something isn’t adding up. 

“Well, naturally.” Loki grins. “Why, are you worried I’ll vanish them out from under you? I assure you I won’t -- that would be highly impolite.”

“Like you care about polite,” Bruce shoots back. “And no, actually, I hadn’t even thought of that, but thank you for reminding me that you are.”

“Then what is it?” Loki looks impatient. He clearly thinks Bruce is wasting time. “If that wasn’t the reason for your question, then please -- sit. You’re making me feel awful just by forcing me to look at the bags under your eyes.”

Sure he is, and surely that’s the reason Loki mentioned it, and not with any intent to bring Bruce down to a few notches below him. Bruce obliges anyway, pulling out a chair that somehow doesn’t make a scraping noise as it drags on the ground. “If you can make this stuff disappear, why can’t you just -- I don’t know. Make the Grandmaster disappear too?”

And oh, if Loki doesn’t cast him the filthiest look Bruce has seen in a very long time. “I told you this before, did I not?” Loki grits out. “The Grandmaster is far too powerful for me to kill.” He clearly doesn’t like being forced to admit it, if his hand is fiddling for the hidden dagger Bruce thinks it is. Bruce swallows, but doesn’t let that deter him. 

“I’m just saying, I don’t see why you need…” he trails off. He isn’t sure he should be pointing out how potentially useless he is, but if Loki’s as smart as Thor’s always made out, he’s already thought of it and they might as well air it in the open. “Me.”

For all that Loki insisted Bruce sit, he certainly doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to join him. The fact that he’s a good deal over six foot isn’t helping the way he’s looming over Bruce, either.

Nice, Loki. Although did he really expect subtlety from the guy recorded shouting at a crowd to “kneel”?

“It seems I have to explain everything ,” Loki sighs, and Bruce is not appreciating the way he manages to make even an exhalation of breath sound condescending. Just because he’s not instantly catching up with the alien politics and abilities that, by the way, Loki never properly explained, it doesn’t make him stupid. Honestly, he thinks he’s doing pretty well for the ‘simple Midgardian’ Loki keeps reminding him he is. 

“The Grandmaster, as I’ve already explained, is a very powerful being. Such power leaves a -- well, the simplest way to put it is a mark. He leaves a mark in the fabric of the universe, and other powerful beings, like myself, can sense it. And vice versa. So you see, I can’t use my seidr directly. Not unless the Grandmaster is distracted by another being with a similarly large mark…such as…”

“I leave a mark?” Bruce asks, surprised.

Loki glances at him disdainfully. “ You don’t. Your other-self does.”

Of course.

Bruce isn’t convinced that’s the entire truth, but he leaves it be. Clearly, if Loki has some other reason behind his actions, he’s not willing to share it, and Bruce, despite no longer being literally glued to a chair, is still too boxed in to feel comfortable pushing the boundaries of his situation.

“Seidr?” he asks instead.

“Magic.” Bruce didn’t even know voices could hold air quotes in the way Loki manages.

“Oh.”

Sighing again and throwing his hands into the air, Loki finally deigns to take his seat, doing so with all the dramatic pompousness of an Asgardian prince. That is, for the given definition of sitting ; he only has about half of his body actually on the chair. “Now, have we gotten all your ridiculous clarifications out of the way? Can we get to planning without more wasted time?”

He sounds so exasperated, so utterly fed up with the fact that Bruce didn’t just take the little information he’d been spoon-fed and run with it, that Bruce almost says “Yes,” before he can think twice. It’s the tone -- almost like a disapproving parent -- that’s practically demanding of an apology, lest you be thrown into “time-out”.

But that too is an act, he realizes. Loki’s distracting him -- skipping neatly over Bruce’s other requirement: his demand of proof that Loki can actually do what he claims he can.

Bruce points this out and knows he’s right when he sees the way Loki’s eyes narrow almost inperceptably across the table. Shortly, he answers, “I’m sure Thor’s spoken of the fact that I can walk the branches of Yggdrasil, and use them to traverse distances in seconds that would otherwise take months. I am not dubbed sky-walker for no reason.”

“Seriously? Skywalker?”

“Yes?” Loki looks confused. That  was clearly not the thing he’d expected Bruce to have a reaction to.  “What of it?”

“Nothing, nevermind,” Bruce waves it away. Loki’s eyes narrow further , but he doesn’t say anything, even though being kept out of the loop clearly irks him. However, Bruce doubts he’d be thrilled with “wasting more time” once he heard the explanation, and anyway, he kind of likes knowing something Loki doesn’t -- even if it’s just Earth pop culture. “But how does that prove anything?”

Loki laces his fingers together beneath his chin. “I thought it was obvious. I’ll use those pathways I can access to take you to Midgard.”

Bruce was worried he’d say something like that.

“Yeah, no,” he refutes. “If that were true, why haven’t you done it yourself by now? You clearly want away. And you said you could walk “Yggdrasil”, which Thor told us connected the nine realms. I don’t remember Thor ever mentioning “Sakaar” being one of those nine realms.”

Loki’s scowling by the time Bruce is done speaking. It makes him look shockingly young, and Bruce finds himself wondering what his age would be, roughly, in Earth years. They’d never asked Thor; it hadn’t seemed relevent, when Asgardian lifespans were measured in the thousands, so any equivalency hardly seemed to matter. But now he finds himself yearning to know. “I cannot leave,” he says, with great reluctance, “Because the Grandmaster has a certain hold on me. But once I’m free of him, these Sakaaran wormholes lead anywhere. The Grandmaster has a great many ships that we can steal, and we can take one through to Asgard or another of the nine. Then, from there, I will transport you home.”

He doesn’t elaborate on the “hold” the Grandmaster has on him and Bruce doesn’t ask him to. Based on the clues he’s gathered so far, he decides he’d rather not know. He does ask: “Why didn’t you just tell me that to start with?”

“Because I didn’t expect you’d trust the comparative uncertainty in that plan, although really it’s not a very uncertain plan at all. I am certain of it; you just don’t know me well enough.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Bruce says, and means that in more ways than one. “But I trust your plan even less now that you’ve lied about it already.”

“ Well ,” Loki says, and doesn’t go on. Instead, he shrugs, as though to say: what did you expect? God of lies .

And really, what had Bruce expected?

“So you can’t provide any concrete proof at all,” Bruce says, and tries not to let the despair of that overwhelm him even as it crashes over his head like a tsunami wave. 

Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean it won’t work . Thor had mentioned Loki’s world-walking.

In passing.

Sort of.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve seen the wormholes,” says Loki. “And ask anyone on this place how anything gets in -- they’ll tell you it’s through the wormholes.”

Bruce has seen the wormholes.

That doesn’t stop the way his head has started to spin or the way his hands have started to tremble very faintly.

(what if he never -- what if he never -- oh God he’s relying on Loki , what are the chances he ever actually --)

Three sharp knocks on the door neatly interrupt his impending panic attack.

Loki stands, smiling serenely, as though he hasn’t noticed anything wrong with Bruce -- even though he’d have to be blind not to. “That will be your sandwich, I suspect,” he says, and goes to answer.

Bruce watches him leave hrough slightly blurred eyes. Loki cracks open the door: “Yes?”

“For you, sir,” says a voice, and there’s a pause, and then Loki’s replying “Thank you” in a voice that sounds ever-so-slightly tense, although that could just be Bruce’s imagination. 

The door closes with a click , and then Loki’s returning, and while he does have some wrapped thing that’s presumably a sandwich with him, it’s dangling limply from his left hand. He’s using his right is to cradle a small, cream envelope. Loki is written neatly in cursive on the front.

His already pallid face seems to have become even paler.

Stiffly, he walks to set the sandwich in front of Bruce. Despite Bruce’s previously overwhelming hunger, he doesn’t move to touch it. His eyes are solely on Loki as the man delicately, with tepidation, slides a fingernail under the flap of the envelope. It’s another long second (that somehow feels longer) before he finally moves to pull out the card inside.

It’s apparently not very long. Loki reads it in a matter of seconds, and when he’s finished his lips have pressed so firmly together they’ve turned white.

“What is it?” Bruce asks.

He doesn’t expect an answer; to his surprise, Loki wordlessly flips the card around so he can see. Bruce leans forward, squinting. It takes him a second before he can get past the garish combination of red, gold, and orange decorating the edges and actually read it.

Dominating the center:

YOU’RE INVITED!

Below, in smaller print:

This evening, at the forty-third rotation.

Off to the side, scribbled in:

Bring your new friend!

“I suppose our planning will have to be put on hold,” Loki says, and his voice is so utterly, completely flat that it sends a chill down Bruce’s spine. “The Grandmaster is throwing a party, and we’ve both been summoned to join.”

Chapter Text

Bruce had thought he’d known what a “party” entailed.

Generally, at least. They tend to fall on a scale: there are the ones he most commonly attends, small gatherings of a handful of friends with maybe some booze and snacks and a movie, and then there are the ones he hypothesizes people like Tony Stark frequent, extravagant and over-the-top and with more than a hint of inappropriate . The kinds of parties that wouldn’t be complete without the night ending in a scandalous headline about some minor celebrity. The kind where all the guests probably have a Wikipedia page and also at least three discreet bank accounts in foreign countries.

He’d suspected the Grandmaster’s party would be something closer to the latter variety.

He was wrong. 

He was, in fact, so utterly, horrifically wrong that he suspects he’ll be beating himself up about it for a long, long while.

His first clue should have been the way Loki’d reacted. “The forty-third rotation” turned out to be the equivalent of about three hours from now -- plenty of time, if you asked Bruce, to do all that planning Loki was so concerned with first . If Loki was hurried enough earlier that even Bruce’s few questions had irritated him, he fully expected at least two of their three hours’ notice for getting ready would be repurposed into plotting the murder of their host.

But no. Loki’d dropped the note to the table before retreating a step, blinking very rapidly, his body tensed. He was perfectly still for almost twenty seconds -- Bruce was counting.Then he sprang into motion, consumed with feverish, almost frantic preparations. He made his second outfit change of only the last few hours, swapping out the purple monstrosity for something still in its packaging, a deep blue sparkly tunic with a sharp v-neckline that Bruce was personally shocked Loki didn’t set fire to, what with the way he glared at it hatefully upon its unwrapping.

Bruce thought he saw something pinned to it -- another note? -- before Loki waved his hand and the paper vanished before he could squint for a closer look. 

Loki laid the tunic out on the bed, then stood there contemplating it. Once he reached out his hand as though to grab it, before hesitating, darting a glance to the door, and then going back to his examination. He was practically vibrating. Suddenly he turned back to Bruce, quickly enough that Bruce couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t been staring. Loki didn’t seem to care.

“Eat your sandwich,” he snapped, flinging his hand out to gesture to the wrapped thing on the table. “You’ll want something in your stomach.”

And Bruce probably should have realized then , but he’d just assumed that had something to do with alcohol, like there typically was at normal parties. So sue him; he was maybe kind of operating on a defunct rule book. It wasn’t his fault nobody had bothered to hand him the new edition.

“We’ll need to find you something to wear, too,” Loki said, eyeing the hospital-like slips of clothing Bruce was currently decked out in. “You can look in the wardrobe. There’s plenty.”

“Those are your clothes ,” Bruce said, agape, because what the fuck. What the actual fuck? Since when did Loki, Invader of New York, Prince of Asgard, just hand off his clothes to his sort-of-hostage Midgardian like teenage girls did on sleepovers?

“We can fix the length,” dismissed Loki, like that was the problem, and then redirected his frantic darting eyes to the rest of the room. They landed once more on the blue tunic. With a huffed snarl, he snatched it up and stormed off to the bathroom to change.

Again . Honestly. What was wrong with staying dressed in the equally ugly purple?

Bruce sat there in a stupor for a moment, before remembering the instruction about the sandwich and turning his attention back to it. He mechanically peeled back the wrapper, feeling a tiny bit of excitement about the alien sandwich despite himself.

It turned out to be rather underwhelming: two pita-bread-like things served as the outside, and the inside was some sort of meat mix. He deliberately did not think about the possibilities of what the meat could be as he tentatively bit into it.

It tasted like…lamb, maybe? And some spice -- almost like cinnamon?

It shouldn’t have worked, but it kind of did. He took another, larger bite, just as the bathroom door opened again with enough force to slam into the wall and Loki hurtled out again, seemingly having lost none of his fury in the time intervening. The V-neck was certainly a choice , to put it politely -- it exposed a good portion of Loki’s chest, and the sparkly fabric fluttered and shifted each time he moved.

(Bruce forcibly quieted those awful, insidious suspicions that kept trying to shove their way to the front of his mind. It was none of his business.)

“Are you not done yet?” Loki demanded, and then he was walking forcibly towards Bruce. Bruce flinched despite himself as Loki snatched the sandwich from his hands, only to fling it, pointlessly, back onto the table.

Asshole. Was that supposed to make Bruce eat any faster?

“I guess I’ll choose something for you, then,” Loki said, spinning for the wardrobe again without waiting for Bruce to respond. Bruce didn’t think he’d stopped moving once since the note arrived. It was kind of unnerving.

“Is red alright?” Loki asked as he rifled through the clothes. The juxtaposition was jarring: one minute he was threatening and domineering, the next he was asking what color clothes Bruce wanted. As if that was anywhere near the top of Bruce’s list of priorities.

“Red’s fine,” he said. Loki yanked something off a hanger, wadded it up, and tossed it over his shoulder at Bruce. Bruce caught it on autopilot.

“I don’t have any shoes, either,” Bruce said, because apparently Loki cared what he wore to this party.

Or apparently not , because Loki twisted his head around and furiously hissed, “ Look for some yourself, then ,” like Bruce had asked something as offensive as the best place to murder kittens.

(Or maybe it’d be the opposite, because this was Loki? Best place to…save kittens? Except that didn’t make much sense, and he doubted even Loki would get offended by some hypothetical kitten-sanctuary. That seemed a bit too cartoonishly evil even for him.)

Loki made one more agitated evaluation of the room (glaring in turn at the bed, the spinny art thing in the corner, and Bruce) before marching out of it all together, each footstep a forceful and resounding thud . When he didn’t return within the next five minutes, Bruce picked the sandwich back up.

He was so weirded out he only managed to occupy himself with it for another minute or two, which left him with a conundrum on what he should actually do now. Eventually, he decided he may as well look for shoes, considering the fact that Loki seemed to be in an even more awful state of mind than normal and he figured that if he was going to get stabbed at any point, it was probably now. Heading off any excuses Loki could find for that at the get-go outweighed the weird, uncomfortable intrusive feeling of rooting through Loki’s closet.

He found a pair of fairly ordinary black loafers nestled among the outlandish magentas and snake-skins and bubbly-knobby-patterned shoes lined up in a row at the bottom. They were too big, but they’d work fine if he laced them up tightly enough.

Once he was fairly certain Loki wasn’t going to return just in time to dramatically burst in on him, he headed off to the bathroom (which didn’t lock; hence Bruce’s concern) and dressed himself in the red bundle he’d been offered. It was another tunic, with a high neck (thank g -- something , he corrected himself uncomfortably) and a too-tight waist, and also pants about five inches too long, because Loki just had to be both very tall and very slender. Very much not Bruce’s body type, because while he wouldn’t call himself fat, he was also a fairly typical middle-aged man and unfortunately all the exercise he got as the Hulk didn’t translate over to his human body. Pity -- that side effect would be one of few he actually wouldn’t mind.

As such, he didn’t look at himself too long in the mirror due to sheer embarrassment. Possibly the alien clothes would look cool on somebody else; Bruce just looked like a kid playing dress-up. A little longingly, his imagination conjured up Tony’s smirk, even filling in the appropriate dialogue: hey, buddy, and what are you tonight? Lemme see, I’m sure I’ve got some candy somewhere --

God. If only Tony were actually here.

Noting the trash can beneath the sink, Bruce exited the bathroom in order to grab the wrapper for his sandwich, which he promptly returned to dispose of. While he was already used to cleaning up after himself, being one of the few hygienic inhabitants of Avengers’ Tower, he also noted that Loki seemed like even more of a neat freak than he was, and again: minimizing the excuses for stabbing.

He wished that there was a clock here. How long had Loki been gone now? Thirty minutes? More?

He put on the shoes and paced a little bit, telling himself it was to get the feel of them and not dispel the sudden surge of nervous energy. Anyways, now that he could walk he was quite enjoying it; he was never going to take having his own limbs free to use for granted again.

To Bruce’s growing trepidation, Loki didn’t return in the next thirty minutes, or the next. There may not have been a clock, but Bruce was certain it had been at least a two strained, uneasy hours by the time said conqueror-not-currently-conquering finally strode back in. 

Strode . He was no longer doing any of those absurdly quick, rushing, about-to-burst-out of his skin steps. For all intents and purposes, Loki seemed rather calm, actually. He came up to the table and sat down and refrained from tapping his fingers into a nervous rhythm on the wood, though Bruce could see his hand twitching. He even smiled at Bruce; Bruce did not smile back because that particular smile was even creepier than usual.

“I’m sorry for leaving you,” Loki said, sounding perfectly sincere, even though of course he wasn’t. “However, it’s time. I see you’re ready. Shall we?”

And somehow that led to where Bruce is now: standing with his back firmly pressed against a metallic wall, tense as a bowstring, and trying desperately to will himself invisible to the absolute depravity occurring around him.

Worse, they’re on a spaceship , hovering thousands of feet above the planet. So even if Bruce could sneak away, he’d have absolutely nowhere to go. All of the “guests” are rather trapped here, and he wonders if that was by design.

Not that anyone besides Bruce seems to care.

Possibly because they’re too out of their minds to do so. 

All sorts of ‘substances’ have been making their way around the party all night, on trays, or just in bottles to swig from, or even just in the air , shimmering greens and pinks arcing not-so-gracefully to land in people’s mouths. Or partially in their mouths, at least; very, very little actually make it, so they spatter instead onto the ground, rendering it a sticky mess.

Or worse. The stickiness is actually best-case-scenario; Bruce is fairly certain he saw some yellow liquid that made the floor dissolve a little bit, hissing and sizzling and popping as it rotted away every place it came in contact with, and no seemed even the slightest bit concerned. The metal floor.

If it could do that to a metal floor, what could it do to fairly fragile human skin?

Bruce, obviously, had pressed himself even further into the wall, but there’s very little else he can do. This party is simultaneously much smaller and much bigger than he’d been anticipating: smaller in size, with this particular room being maybe equivalent to the average gas station ( not a Tony-Stark-party-ballroom), but with a much larger body of guests to fill it, none of whom seemed to mind the lack of space this affords them. Bruce has been brushed against at least a dozen times by someone with gelatinous and/or fuzzy and/or spiky skin, because also, oh yeah, did he mention that everyone is practically naked ?

If Loki’s blue glittery neckline outfit had seemed daring before, he’s practically the equivalent of a nun at this party. He probably sticks out like a sore thumb.

Only Bruce doesn’t know, because said bag of cats is not actually here .

No; the minute they’d both ascended the ramp of the spaceship, they’d been accosted by an delighted-looking Grandmaster, who had seemingly been waiting for them. With a flourish, he offered Loki his arm, the gesture almost playful -- not a true courtesy, but rather an entertaining parody of civility. Loki had smiled back at him, and, only a little stiffly, taken it.

“Hell o ,” the Grandamaster said to Bruce once Loki was secured firmly at his side -- both physically and, Bruce suspected, metaphorically. Their linked arms (as well as Loki’s newly pleasant blankness) told him he’d be getting no help from Loki’s corner if the Grandmaster decided he wanted to throw Bruce into the arena to die after all. He felt as his heart sped up, and he was glad that they weren’t walking anywhere; his knees were stiff enough he was fairly certain they’d crumple beneath him if he tried to move. “I’m still mad at you, you know,” the Grandmaster continued. “The thing -- your plan with my Champion -- it was such a preposterous idea, and it cost me my Champion , you understand? I was so upset when I first heard! So upset! But I suppose -- mm. Not every lost thing can be as much of a treasure as Lolo here. It was understandable considering your poor friend. I’ll forgive you,” he finished maganimously. 

Loki, whose gaze had been fixed determinedly on some vague thing over the Grandmaster’s shoulder, finally deigned to acknowledge Bruce again with a quick glance.

Bruce took the hint. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” The Grandmaster beamed. “Now, it was lovely to catch up, but we really --” he looked at Loki. Loki looked back, expression unchanging. “Well, I  really have the nicest thing planned and we must be off. Enjoy yourself, etcetera.”

And before Bruce could protest, he effortlessly swept the sole person Bruce knew here off to one of the other rooms on the ship. Presumably also a party room. Bruce doesn’t know, because he isn’t about to go exploring; he had firmly glued himself to this corner the moment he realized that fuck Loki had actually ditched him .

Not that he particularly wants to be around Loki.

Except maybe he does, because at least with Loki he knows what to expect . Loki’s far from normal, but he’s become a kind of recognizable strange, and right now that’s preferable to whatever hellish “party” Bruce has fallen into.

Barely two feet away from him, he watches against his will as two scantily-clad purple-skinned women begin combining parts of their bodies he’s pretty sure (and he’s no expert on this particular breed of alien, but he’s pretty sure ) were never meant to be combined. 

They’re moaning and making other obscene noises and no one is so much as batting an eye, mostly because they’re all doing similar , when suddenly one of the purple aliens glances over at him and winks. Then she says something, a high-pitched string of noise he can’t decipher, but her raises eyebrows and outstretched…limb say it all. Bruce shakes his head, frantically, and tries to press himself even further away. It’s useless; any further and he’d become a part of the wall.

The woman shrugs and goes back to ravishing her partner, clearly not caring one way or the other.

Bruce puts his eyes on the ceiling and exhales shakily.

How much longer can this thing go? He’s certain it must have been hours already.

Then:

“Why, hello there ,” someone says from beside him. It’s the first voice he’s heard in English all night, and Bruce’s head jerks instinctively to locate it.

It’s the woman from before. Scrapper 142.

Also -- now that he’s thinking about it, why is it that she and the Grandmaster and Loki all happen to speak English? It seems awfully improbable. 

Scrapper 142 is still clothed in the same blue leather as earlier, to Bruce’s eternal thanks, but her lopsided smile and loose stance tell him she’s managed to get herself access to even more alcohol since the large bottle from before. He finds himself wondering how she’s still standing at all. 

“I didn’t expect to see you around, to be honest,” Scrapper 142 says. “I mean, the Grandmaster’s thrown people in the Arena for walking in the wrong place before. Granted, that was just the once, and she had ugly hair, too, but…” she trails off, then raises a finger triumphantly. “But you get rid of the Green Guy and somehow score an invite to one of his parties? That’s unbelievable.”

“I didn’t ask for the invite,” says Bruce faintly. He feels abrubtly nauseous, and hopes he won’t vomit on her.

“Well, you got one! Might as well enjoy yourself. What are you doing squirelled away all by yourself? This is a communal party, if you know what I mean.” She nudges him suggestively and Bruce flinches before he can stop himself.

She pouts. “Oh, come on. You can’t be this boring. If you were, Lackey’d have offed you instead of saving your life. I hear he actually bargained with the Grandmaster. Took longer than the usual negotiations, too.” She snags two glasses with some fizzing blue drink in them off a passing tray. Bruce hadn’t realized there were still glasses left; he thought the party had devolved into the “straight-from-the-bottle” type a while back. She downs one and offers him the other.

“No thank you,” Bruce says. He’d decided firmly to touch absolutely nothing here once he saw that otherwise ordinary-looking beverage make the floor melt. 

“Your loss,” says Scrapper 142, and downs his, too, smacking her lips obnoxiously once she’s finished. Then she shakes her head and turns away with a snort to stare out at the chaos around them. “Honestly. You’re so boring.”

But she doesn’t make a move to leave for any of the more exciting areas of the room, and after several minutes of them just standing next to each other awkwardly (well, awkwardly for Bruce, anyway; Scrapper 142 doesn’t seem to care), he asks, “Where is Loki, anyway?”

“I suspect he’s still paying back the favor he owes the Grandmaster for your life,” Scrapper 142 answers, casually, eyes on a blob with jellyfish-like skin that is hopping its way through the center of the room to enormous cheers. She claps along when it finishes with a 360-degree spin into --

Fuck, is that someone’s mouth ?

Bruce shudders and tries to redirect his attention to what she just said.

“Favor?”

“I can’t believe you’re really this stupid,” Scrapper 142 says, shaking her head despairingly, but she doesn’t explain. “I’m not going to spell it out for you if you’re too dull to reason it out yourself. It’s hardly a secret.”

The thing is, Bruce is not really that stupid. He knows perfectly well what she’s implying, but his brain is struggling to make sense of it. It’s like there’s some kind of barrier preventing the knowledge from settling properly. Every time he tries to put the peices together, some flashy, dancing mind-monkey draws his attention away, bashing symbols together and screeching “look over here, look over here!”

Because it’s Loki . It’s Loki, Loki who killed eighty people in two days , Loki who is from a race literally thought of as Gods , Loki who was caught on tape screaming at people to “KNEEL”, Loki who tried to take over the planet --

How could Loki bring himself to -- to --

Then Bruce thinks, and she said he’s paying back the favor for my life , and it becomes even more unthinkable. Because in what galaxy would Loki bring himself to do that for Bruce?

There has to be another explanation.

But he’s struggling to find another one that fits so damnably well.

“Oh,” Scrapper 142 says suddenly, and Bruce glances at her in question, but she’s still not looking at him, so he follows her gaze to the other side of the room and the door that just opened. A black-haired figure stumbles through, alone.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Bruce’s first instinct is relief (and how messed up is that?), and he doesn’t even try to curb the feeling. Because surely this means he and Loki are done with their part of the party and can leave now.

Then Bruce looks closer and feels his stomach drop into his toes.

Loki’s stumbling, yeah, so he’s upright -- but barely. He’s leaning heavily on the wall. His eyes aren’t particularly focused. Bruce’s eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but he’s pretty sure Loki’s hands are trembling.

The final nail in the coffin is the way Scrapper 142 whistles, low, through her teeth.

For the first time, her voice doesn’t have that same careless, drunken levity as she says, “Oh.”

“What?”

“I didn’t expect -- oh.”

“What?” Bruce demands.

“That poor bastard,” says Scrapper 142, and she sounds like she’s just uttered a death sentence.

Chapter Text

The majority of the room doesn’t seem to have noticed Loki yet.

Neither, really, does Loki seem to have noticed the room -- he’s staring off at nothing in particular, and he’d stopped moving almost as soon as he made it past the doorway, as through he’d used his last burst of energy to make it inside. Now he’s slumped woodenly against the wall. Bruce keeps waiting for him to look up and see Bruce, and maybe give some indication of what, exactly, Bruce is supposed to do in this scenario. He certainly feels like he should be doing something . If Loki were anyone else, Bruce would have been over there in an instant, already taking a pulse and temperature and asking questions and generally doing his best to figure out the issue so that he can fix it . He’s a doctor. He might not be a medical doctor, exactly, but he knows the basics.

Further: he’s an Avenger . He helps people.

(if only to make up for the scores of people he’s hurt.)

But this is Loki.

Not only is he far from innocent, he’s not even human. Who knows if any of Bruce’s knowledge would even apply?

But the seconds are ticking by and Loki’s just looking worse and worse over there, pale and sweaty and still decidedly not looking up at Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t know what to do. He truly doesn’t know what to do. His body keeps twitching forward and then back again. 

Shockingly, it’s Scrapper 142 who ends up deciding for him. “Well?” she snaps with narrowed, judgmental eyes. “You’d better go and help him somewhere quieter before another person takes advantage.” There’s venom in her voice, but for the first time, Bruce doesn’t think it’s directed at Loki. Should he count it as worse or better that her disdain now is exclusively for Bruce? Clearly, she thinks he should already be moving, and it sends a stab of hot shame into his stomach.

If even this immoral, drunken mess is able to look past the who and just see the what , which is a person suffering, then Bruce should undoubtedly be able to.

He’s an Avenger.

That’s what he’s for.

Right?

( Right .)

But first thing’s first. He needs to figure out, to the best of his abilities, whatever it is that’s wrong with Loki. He doesn’t look visibly injured, so does that mean he’s under the influence of some drug? Bruce already isn’t the most qualified person around, and he’s on an alien planet (as he keeps being reminded). Who knows what kind of substances are available here?

“You’re acting like you know what’s wrong with him,” Bruce says to Scrapper 142, because the horror in her tone had seemed like the type found from experience.

“I don’t,” she refutes immediately. Then: “But I can guess. It’s one of the Grandmaster’s favorites, but --” her forehead wrinkles -- “not the kind he usually uses on his favorite people , which Lackey’s been the past few weeks, so maybe I’m wrong -- but then. Oh! Maybe he’s finally worn out his welcome, and this is his goodbye gift, in which case he’s probably luckier than he deserves, wouldn’t that be funny --” and she’s kind of rambling, still watching Loki, and she’s not elaborating , and they don’t have time for her to be drunk right now.

“What does it do ?” Bruce demands.

(He’s getting far too comfortable demanding things from strange aliens.)

“It’s a type of powder. It kind of -- it kind of erases you, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. Tell me what you mean. Now .”

“It --” she’s struggling, clearly. The alcohol might not be as evident with her as with others, and she’s not slurring her words, but the quickness of her thoughts has obviously suffered. “It -- separates you, from the world around. Disconnects you. You forget who you are, where you are. You’re suggestible ,” and there’s that disgust again. Tellingly, she sounds like she’s forcing herself to spit out the words. And Bruce wants to vomit, because that same persistent, nagging idea keeps shoving its way into his head. The distressing reason why the Grandmaster would want Loki to be suggestible . 

He thinks he’s heard enough, but Scrapper 142 keeps going, heedless of the way Bruce presses his lips together in faint nausea. “You become empty . A shell. And they can make you whoever they want you to be -- and you, you don’t know the difference, you just want someone to tell you what to be so you’re not so cold and empty anymore. You’ll do anything. The Grandmaster likes that, he thinks it’s great fun -- most of the people at this party would think it’s fun --”

“How can I fix it?”

“You can’t, really, not with any speed, and usually it’s not worth it to try and find a cure -- too expensive, especially when you’re Asgardian, which Lackey claims he is. Asgardians are resilient.” She sounds condescending. “You just have to wait it out with people who won’t use it against you. Which, for Lackey, is nobody at this party, except I suspect you , because this is mostly your fault . And!” she abruptly turns aggressive. “And you’re still not moving, amlóði! He saved your life and this is how you repay him?”

She shoves at him. Bruce stumbles a few unwilling feet into the crowd, and the crush of bodies parts around him with various degrees of grumbling. Coming into physical contact with the other guests is a common enough occurrence that nobody seems too bothered. On the flip side: it’s hardly been two seconds before somebody reaches out a limb to snatch at him. Bruce jerks away violently.

Loki is all the way on the other side of the room .

How is he going to get over there?

Also, where is Bruce even supposed to take him? There’s nowhere secluded where they can “wait it out”, as Scrapper 142 unhelpfully advised. The room is utterly and completely packed full. And they’re on a space ship .

He shouts this at Scrapper 142, because even the yard or so separating them is too much to talk normally over, what with the volume of the obscene noises and pulsing, eardrum-splitting music. She rolls her eyes, but he sees through the gesture. Her taut mouth says she’s concerned. The way she actually answers him proves it.

“There’s a place,” she says, going for flippant but not quite able to hide her reluctance. “I’ll show you.”

It’s funny.

The woman who originally seemed like one of his main enemies on this place -- the woman who initially delivered him to the Grandmaster -- might be turning out to be one of the closest things he has to an ally. Her and Loki, really, are all he has, and Loki’s out of commission.

(Seriously, what is his life?)

She proceeds to plunge into the fray, using the same impressive strength behind her earlier shove to push and pry bodies out of the way, and Bruce hurries to follow in the path she creates before it closes. The smell is the worst part: the putrid perfume of dozens (hundreds?) of sweaty bodies mixed with stale booze and possibly urine. Bruce thinks he steps in something suspicious; fortunately, it doesn’t melt his shoe, and there’s too many people pressed too closely together for him to look down and examine whatever it is. Perhaps that’s a blessing; he probably doesn’t want to know.

Someone shoves him to the side; he stumbles and almost falls.

He’ll probably also have bruises by the end of this.

(He wonders how much worse Loki’s going to come out of this nightmare of a party.)

He can’t even see Loki anymore, actually; too many of these aliens are far taller than him. He can only hope that the confidence with which Scrapper 142 is walking is because she still has him in her sights, and not because she’s drunk, or because she’s decided not to help out after all.

He finds himself subconsciously praying Loki’s still okay, and that no one’s “taken advantage” in the few minutes it’s taking Bruce and his maybe-accomplice to traverse the wild pit that is the center of the room -- an impulse he simultaneously berates himself for and is confused about, because this is Loki .

(He still feels cold when he thinks about the whole situation too long, so he does his best not to. He’s really, desperately trying not to think about it.)

Finally, they force their way free from the suffocating center of the mass of people. It’s still stifling -- the whole room makes him feel a bit like he’s in an oven -- but he can breath again, and move his arms and legs more than a few inches at a time, and more importantly, he can see Loki .

Who --

( Fuck . Bruce isn’t qualified to deal with this, he’s so not qualified to deal with this, he’s not a doctor and he’s not Asgardian --)

-- who, close up, looks far worse than he’d looked from across the room.

His eyes are open, but they’re not focusing -- they’re not moving at all, fixed firmly on a point somewhere in the distance, and it’s unsettling and concerning because eyes aren’t supposed to be that still. His whole body is trembling minutely, like an excitable dog, but he has no expression of excitement. He just has that blank gaze and those wide eyes and fuck fuck fuck .

(isthisBruce’sfault?)

Scrapper 142 is waving her hand in front of Loki’s face. Loki’s not following the motion.

Bruce is so unqualified for this.

(But he’s the only option Loki has)

So, hesitantly, he follows Scrapper 142’s lead, reaching out his hand to the place on Loki’s neck where the man’s pulse should be. No sooner have Bruce’s fingertips brushed his skin when Loki flinches violently , nearly jumping out of his skin, his head banging against the wall in his wild thrashing motion to get away , and Bruce pulls back in horror.

“Fuck,” says Scrapper 142. “He’s worse than I thought.”

“No shit ,” is all Bruce manages to say, because a world where Loki allows himself to show that amount of uncontrollable weakness is a world where Loki is clearly incredibly messed up (and not even in Loki’s normal form of messed up , which is usually synonymous with psychopathic ). Bruce prays desperately that Scrapper 142 was telling the truth as he says, “You said you knew a place we could take him?”

_

The “place” Scrapper 142 knows is…a broom closet.

Or the alien equivalent of one. The point is: it is small and cramped and dark, and the three of them together barely fit. Bruce puts that out of his head in favor of the more important fact that it is indeed isolated -- tucked away in a hallway somewhere. Yes, they can still hear the party raging around them, but it’s muted now. Even the air is a good several degrees cooler.

They’ve made it.

It had been Scrapper 142 to hoist Loki’s trembling arm over her shoulder, grimly heedless of the way he’d cried out (and that was so wrong on so many levels, this was Loki ), entirely supporting his body weight as she took several lurching steps towards a different door than the one Loki had originally entered through. Loki, seeming to regain a little clarity, tried to move his own feet to help her, but it was obvious Scrapper 142 was doing the majority of the work. Bruce noted in some far corner of his brain that she’s even stronger than he thought -- and that strength meant she could probably be pretty dangerous, if it came down to it, and if she happened to be somewhat sober when that time came.

Someone moved into their path: a green-skinned, willowy being with inky eyes. They began to chatter loudly at Scrapper 142 in a language Bruce didn’t know, before making large, sweeping gestures at Loki, who had stopped his unnerving stare in favor of rapid blinking at the floor.

When the being moved as though to grab Loki’s limp arm, Scrapper 142 not only slapped the offending appendage away with a speed she shouldn’t possess at her level of intoxication -- she also somehow produced a knife, which she aimed steadily at a point beneath the willowy being’s chin.

(Scrap that: Scrapper 142 was dangerous no matter the circumstances)

The being’s inky eyes widened. It raised its hands in the universal gesture of surrender before it began to back away, chattering all the while.

“You’re such a yellow!” called Scrapper 142 nonsensically as it retreated, and Bruce could swear the thing looked hurt .

Fortunately, that was their only obstacle.

Now they’re crammed into a closet, the musty smell leagues better than the piss-booze-sweat odor of before. It’s just large enough to lay Loki out lengthwise on the floor, and it speaks to how out-of-it Loki is that he doesn’t even protest when Scrapper 142 rearranges him into such a vulnerable position. He’s still trembling, minutely, and it’s more terrifying than anything else Bruce has seen him do so far.

“And we just have to wait?” Bruce asks Scrapper 142 desperately. There has to be something they can do, even to just minimize the symptoms.

“We?” Scrapper 142 barks a laugh. “I think you mean you . I, for one, am not about to allow Lackey to ruin my hard-won night. There are many more drinks to be consumed, women to woo, appearances to keep. You understand.” She wiggles her eyebrows at him through the dark, and it’s somehow like the concern from earlier -- a concern strong enough for her to overcome her immense dislike of Loki (and mild dislike of Bruce) and lead them to what’s clearly her personal hideout -- was just a figment of Bruce’s imagination. There’s not a hint of sympathy present in her current smirk.

She puts her hand on the doorknob, making as if to go out, and Bruce holds back the instinctive protest that leaps to his tongue. Then she pauses. Then: “Maybe try talking to him; telling him facts about himself. The whole point of the drug is to disconnect him from himself so that the drug-administer can impose their new, fucked-up identity onto him. If you tell him his actual identity, maybe it’ll bring him to himself sooner. I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” Then she snorts again. “Or maybe you shouldn’t do that. Maybe you should lie to him. Try and mess him up in a good way, make him a more pleasant person to be around -- he certainly needs the help.”

She glances back at Loki one last time, lips pursed.

Then she’s gone. A brief sliver of distorted blue light from the party pierces the gloom before the dark overwhelms them once more. Bruce doesn’t even have time to ask her if she’s coming back, or when it’ll be safe to leave, or even how they’ll know the ship has landed and the party is over -- although he’ll probably be able to figure out the latter part just based on when the moaning stops.

He and Loki are trapped together in a broom closet. Alone.

Bruce doesn’t know how this became his life. 

Tell him facts about himself .

What, exactly, does Bruce know about Loki?

And did Scrapper 142 mean things like eye color, hair length, height -- physical description? Or less tangible things, like his favorite food, his preference in reading material, who he had a crush on when he was a kid, his preferred cities to conquer, why he’s such a fucking psycho who fucking kills people , he killed so many people and yet he’s here and he’s vulnerable and how is it the same person, howhowhow-- 

Bruce might be a little bit hysterical.

(Only a little.)

“Um, Loki?” he starts with, only to remember Loki hasn’t actually spoken since he got drugged with whatever hellish identity-distorting drug Scrapper 142 seemed to think it was. The trend holds; Loki doesn’t respond.

He does, however, turn his head into the floor. It reminds Bruce uncomfortably of a petulant child, pretending he can’t see the monster and hoping that will make it disappear.

Of course, that can’t possibly be Loki’s reason.

He’s probably just too out of it to have control over what his head does.

“Loki, hey…um. You’re name’s Loki,” nice going, Bruce, way to go, that’ll help for sure .

But what else does he really know about the man lying in front of him? Besides the fact that one time he tried to take over Bruce’s city, and somehow Bruce doubts that was the kind of info Scrapper 142 suggested he share.

So he starts basic.

“You’ve got -- blue eyes. I think. You have kind of shoulder-length black hair. You like the color green, I guess, or at least you wear it a lot. You’re kind of a snarky bastard most of the time, and I really wish you’d show a little of that snark now, honestly, no matter how much I usually hate it.”

It’s so awkward he kind of wants to self-combust. Could this really, possibly be helping? Scrapper 142 hadn’t seemed certain about her own advice, and Loki doesn’t seem to be having any visible positive reaction -- but neither has he had a negative one. And Bruce is a doctor, and an Avenger; he has a tough time just sitting and doing nothing to help someone in such obvious pain, even if that someone is Loki.

Maybe it’s not working because it’s not personal enough.

He hesitates, not sure about Loki’s reaction -- he doesn’t have a good track record with reminders about his family -- before plowing on. “You have a brother named Thor, who really loves you, won’t shut up about you despite how awful you are to him. You have a dad who you have some issues with, but he probably loves you too. He’s Odin, King of Asgard, Allfather or whatever. Oh, yeah, umm. You’re Asgardian --”

Is it just Bruce’s imagination, or does Loki’s trembling lessen very slightly?

Trying not to get his hopes up, but feeling excitement begin to bubble nonetheless, Bruce repeats himself. “Yeah, you’re Asgardian, figures that’s the thing you’d react to. You’re super superior about it, always bragging about being stronger and smarter than us ‘mortal ants’, because we used to think of Asgardians as Gods and apparently you’re not willing to let that go any time soon, because you’re Asgardian --” and it’s definitely not Bruce’s imagination, Loki’s condition is definitely evolving. His trembling has stopped almost entirely. His face, or what little Bruce can see of it, is scrunched up in what seems close to a scowl, but at least that’s a change . He’s responding to Bruce’s words. He’s hearing them.

Probably he’s just not pleased about Bruce calling him “super superior” in a slightly mocking tone.

“You’re Asgardian,” Bruce encourages again, spirited now. “You’re Asgardian, from the Nine Realms, guardians of Yggdrasil -- umm, the World Tree -- you’re all kind of warriors up there, you Asgardians, you’re Loki and you’re Asgardian --”

But then he trails off, because something is happening to Loki he hadn’t predicted. 

It starts at his fingertips, before quickly creeping up to his forearms, his exposed chest, and finally his face.

Bruce gapes.

Loki’s cloaked by shadow, but not enough to hide him properly.

No amount of shadow could hide the fact that Loki is suddenly, inexplicably, undeniably blue .

Chapter Text

It only lasts a second or so; then Loki’s face contorts into a grimace, his hands clench, and suddenly he’s back to being the same pale bastard he’s always been.

But Bruce knows what he saw.

And honestly: what the fuck ?

He knows he’s been thinking that a lot recently, but seriously -- Scrapper 142 hadn’t given any hint of sudden color changes being a side effect of this nightmare drug. Bruce feels like that’d be a pretty important thing to leave out.

Maybe she’s been lying the whole time , Bruce thinks as he stares, open-mouthed, at Loki, who has gone back to gazing absently at the floor. Why had she suddenly decided to help them out? There isn’t any obvious benefit for her, and she’d been the one to toss Bruce into this mess in the first place. He’d been plain stupid -- and just desperate enough -- to take what she’d said at face value. When has blindly trusting someone like her ever gone well?

And yet…

What benefit does she gain by lying? The Grandmaster’s favor? She hadn’t seemed particularly concerned with that, before -- in fact, she’d actively disparaged Loki for seeking it out.

But if Bruce goes out on a limb and assumes she was telling the truth…why, then, did Loki turn blue ?

He desperately wants to interrogate someone about it and find answers, but the only two sources he has for information are both inaccessible in different ways. Scrapper 142’s probably off getting even drunker somewhere. And Loki’s…well.

At least he’s not shaking any longer.

Bruce still hasn’t gotten over how wrong it feels for Loki to be this vulnerable. His mouth is slightly parted, his body’s equal parts tense and…floopy, and his hair’s. been utterly ruined. Surprisingly well-maintained and impressively silky locks have now been transformed into a snarled black mess, likely courtesy of how Scrapper 142 and Bruce and probably the Grandmaster have been manhandling him. And, of course, he’s completely out of it. He has no idea what’s going on around him. If Bruce wanted to kill him -- take vengeance for the hundreds upon hundreds dead at this man’s command in New York -- he’s never had a better shot at success. 

He thinks that would be what Fury would want him to do. He imagines that the Director would say it was for the greater good of SHIELD, of America -- of the entire Earth, even -- and to be honest, he’d probably be right. Fury is not an unintelligent man, for all that he is a ruthlessly pragmatic one. 

Then Bruce thinks of how devastated Thor would be when he heard the news. The way his face would just crumple in on itself -- even if Bruce edited the story so as to conceal his involvement. He thinks of how Fury probably had that same terribly, damnably cynical way of thinking about the Hulk, too, before Hulk saved the city and became a beloved Avenger. He thinks, inexplicably, of Loki summoning him a sandwich when Bruce said he was hungry.

A second later, he reminds himself that Loki’s his only way off this awful planet, but he doesn’t even try to convince himself that’s the real reason he stays his hand.

No. 

The reason he doesn’t try and kill Loki is…

Well. He doesn’t think that he hates him enough anymore.

And isn’t that startling? Bruce doesn’t know when that happened: when the body on the floor at his feet started being Loki-of-Sakaar instead of Loki-from-New-York , and also when Bruce stopped seeing the two men as synonymous. The transition was so gradual and insidious he almost attributes it to something else. He wonders, momentarily, whether Loki’s somehow messing with his head the way he did Clint’s, even without the scepter.

But that doesn’t make sense, either, does it? Because Bruce is still suspicious of Loki. He still thinks the guy’s an enormous asshole. He still thinks he’s incredibly messed up. He’s convinced that Loki desperately needs therapy the way most people need air to breathe.

Bruce just…doesn’t hate him.

Not really. Not anymore. 

And he doesn’t know what to do with that information. In absence of hatred, he doesn’t know what to feel about Loki. 

It’s unsettling. Almost frightening.

Bruce lets his head fall back against the wall behind him with a dull thunk .

This whole uninvited, crashing realization is too much to deal with right now. It’s too momentous a thing to contemplate at the same time he’s trapped in a fucking broom closet with the man. Bruce is tired, and overwhelmed, and honestly he’d prefer to sort out all of his tangled feelings about Loki later, when he’s calmer. Preferably when Loki’s not present. Preferably when he’s not on this cursed planet at all.

For now, he’s going to do his best to forget about all the complicated bits.

For now, he’s going to boil it down to its most basic form:

A person is hurt.

Bruce is a doctor.

Bruce should help the person.

It’s that simple.

(It is not even close to that simple.)

It’s that simple . So what are the rest of the facts of the situation?

Oh, yeah -- he should probably address the fact that Loki just turned blue.

He’s fairly certain that’s not normal for Asgardians, or he’d know about it from Thor -- hopefully, at least. He’s getting better about it, but Thor’s enthusiasm does mean certain things tend to get lost in translation, particularly in regards to cultural differences.

(Like how to work an oven. Tony had needed to order a whole new kitchen set to replace the wreckage leftover from that particular misunderstanding -- along with several workers discreet enough to not ask too many questions when installing it.)

Loki’s not blue anymore, so Bruce is almost tempted to chalk the incident up to his imagination; this whole mess is complicated enough already. He doesn’t allow himself to. 

There’s a non-zero chance that the “blueness” is a dangerous side effect to this already dangerous drug, and if that’s the case, Bruce would be remiss in his duty as “doctor” in this scenario if he ignored it.

He thinks back -- what had happened in the moments directly before the change? 

He’d been trying to do as Scrapper 142 suggested, telling Loki pieces of his identity, and he’d been struggling because hello , Loki isn’t exactly someone he knows on a personal level, so he’d just been kind of regurgitating the same basic information.

And then he’d told Loki he was Asgardian.

And Loki had turned blue.

He wonders if it’s even ethical to do the same thing again, just in case it truly is a side effect of the drug and saying those things really is hurting him.

Fuck it , Bruce decides finally.

So maybe he’s not entirely past New York after all.

“You’re Asgardian,” he tells Loki, watching closely for a similar reaction, but this time, Loki stays decidedly normally shaped and colored. Bruce would think he hadn’t heard at all if it weren’t for the slight (but telling) downturn at the corners of his lips.

“Hey, I know you’re just choosing to ignore me,” Bruce guesses more than states. But Loki’s lips twitch even further down, and his forehead wrinkles, which pretty much confirms Bruce’s hypothesis.

Asshole .

Bruce will give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s not quite to the point where he can talk and process things conventionally yet, because otherwise he’s just choosing to let Bruce flounder through this awful situation alone, and that would be an absolute dick move -- but then, this is Loki, even if he’s injured. What, exactly, did Bruce expect?

“So I think we’re kind of stuck here,” Bruce continues, in case Loki is able to understand, and also because the awkwardness of being trapped in the janitorial closet is starting to eat at him. “At least until you’re cognizant enough that we can start figuring stuff out. Otherwise I think we just…wait here, until the ship comes down. And then we sneak off?”

He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels.

It’s probably not very reassuring to Loki that his fate is essentially in the hands of a “mortal” -- and a newly arrived one to boot, at least in the form that Bruce is considered “mortal”. He understands very little about this place, and despite the fact that Loki’s doubt is based mainly in his “superior” Asgardian racism, Bruce can’t help but admit that he’s not exactly wrong to be sceptical. 

Or, well, probably he’s not wrong. This all relies on the assumption that Loki’s present somewhere in there and is also actually thinking all the things Bruce thinks he’s thinking. 

Bruce thinks he is. But he can’t be certain.

Possibly Bruce is just projecting his own insecurities onto the only other person here.

Focus, Bruce .

“I’m going to sit down now,” he announces to Loki, so that he won’t startle him. Loki’s sort of uncharted territory at the moment -- Bruce doesn’t know what he’ll do anymore. Earlier he’d immediately lost it just from Bruce touching him , so Bruce isn’t taking chances.

Bruce proceeds to do exactly as he’d said, sliding down the wall so that he’s in a seated position a little to the right of Loki’s head, knees to his chest, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

He doesn’t like being this close to Loki, but he’s not going to stay standing for however many hours longer the party will last.

Then he realizes: even like this…this close to Loki… nothing .

As in: no roaring taking over his rational thoughts. No green monster clawing its way to the forefront.

The Other Guy’s been pretty quiet so far -- Bruce has barely felt him stirring at all. At first it had been a relief. Now it’s concerning.

He’s fairly certain that at any other time, a good half of the things that have happened to him so far would have sent the Hulk tearing free of his metaphorical cage in Bruce’s head.

(And…what if he’s gone for good?)

(Bruce has wanted him gone for basically forever. Why, then, does the thought feel so discomfiting?)

(Also: what will Loki do if Bruce can’t uphold his end of the bargain?)

Well, nothing , Bruce reassures himself. Not right now, anyway. Right now Loki can’t do much of anything. 

“Scrapper 142 said we just had to wait and it’ll start leaving on its own. The drug, I mean. The one she thinks you’re on. Well, were given.” Bruce hesitates. “Um, did you take it…willingly? Or…”

As soon as he’s said it, he regrets letting the words leave his mouth. He thanks something that Loki doesn’t answer.

“Um, if you can hear me, but you can’t talk, you can just like…wiggle your fingers, or something.”

Loki’s fingers do not wiggle.

“Or…wiggle your fingers if you want me to prop your head up, or if you need me to turn you to your side, or something like that. If you feel like you’re in danger.”

Ha . Like Loki would ever admit to needing something.

Predictably, the fingers remain statuesque. 

(Wiggle your fingers , some part of Bruce’s mind thinks hysterically, you just told the invader of New York to wiggle his fucking fingers and somehow you’re still alive -- even if he is a bit crippled at the moment -- )

And what? Bruce is supposed to spend an indefinite amount of time just like this? Just talking nonsense at a proven murderer in the darkness, alone but for said murderer? He already feels like he’s going to explode from the tension.

He closes his eyes.

Takes several deep breaths.

Opens them.

Actually, nevermind. His eyes being open -- and inevitably watching Loki, who is doing his best impression of Snow White after biting that poisoned apple, sans the glass coffin -- is doing nothing to help Bruce forget what’s happening or to ease his anxiety. So he closes his eyes again and does his best to imagine himself away from here. Somewhere calm. Somewhere safe.

Inevitably, his mind takes him to Stark Tower.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table on the common floor. Natasha is across from him; even at “home base”, she’s still dressed in a combat-ready suit, but for once, her feet are up and her hands are laced behind her head. Other than the black assassin garb, she is in every way the perfect picture of relaxation. Bruce, however, knows she’s probably already categorized every possible exit and that both of her “relaxed” hands are in easy reach of a knife or three.

Still. The fact that she’ll even pretend at comfort is flattering.

Tony hasn’t dragged himself out of bed yet, but Clint’s in the kitchen, flipping omelets, humming something too obnoxiously cheerful for a Monday morning. Still, Bruce can’t complain about it, because he’s screwed as far as breakfast is concerned if he manages to piss Clint off. Clint and Steve are the only two trusted to cook without burning the end result. Even then, Clint’s usually the only one ever found in there; Steve still struggles a bit with modern appliances.

Bruce thinks he hears footsteps on the stairs, and speak of the devil, because he knows it’s probably their Captain…

_

Bruce is jerked from his fantasy by a loud huff of breath. It’s followed by a sound -- small, testing.

Unwillingly, he drags himself away from his mind’s conjuration of Tony, who is explaining the newest iteration of the Iron Man suit, and back to the desolate, unwieldy present.

And Loki.

Loki who is staring right at Bruce .

Fuck .

“Hi,” Bruce says, awkwardly, for lack of anything else to say.

Loki makes another sound. He winces, looking irritated with himself. Then, slowly -- laboriously: “Where am I?”

“We’re still on the ship,” Bruce says.

Loki’s expression doesn’t change. It’s like he doesn’t know what that means.

“The Grandmaster’s ship?” Then it’s Bruce’s turn to wince; he probably shouldn’t be reminding Loki about the guy who was the source of his current…condition. Something about trauma.

(like Loki could ever be traumatized -- but he is, was, he is --)

Loki’s silent, but his forehead creases in confusion. On anyone else, Bruce might even call it “cute”.

But it’s Loki, so Bruce banishes the thought from his mind.

“He invited us to one of his parties,” Bruce says, leadingly. Loki’s lack of comprehension is a bit concerning, but it’s still leagues better than whatever he was doing before, so Bruce isn’t going to complain. He’s just going to have to assume that this issue will “go away on its own” like the rest of the effects are supposed to.

Preferably soon. Preferably before the ship lands. Loki’s magic powers would be pretty nice to rely on when planning their grand (ha) escape, but that relies on Loki having the presence of mind to use said powers.

Also -- yes, Loki’s eyes are on Bruce, but Bruce realizes that now they’re not really on him. They’re clouded, like he’s seeing right through the solid flesh to something beyond and untouchable.

“Who --” Loki’s breath hitches. “Oh,” he continues, flatly, and then he squints. The cloudiness seems to clear for a brief moment.

Hope stirs in Bruce’s chest. 

Loki crushes that hope immediately (because of course he does) by failing to continue on that path of clarity and instead repeating himself: “Who --”

“Who?” Bruce asks.

“Who are you?” Loki says. Then, as though Bruce hadn’t answered this question only a minute before: “Where am I?”

“I’m Bruce,” Bruce answers, optimism falling. “We’re on the Grandmaster’s ship.”

Loki opens his mouth, and Bruce tries to prepare himself for the same question again. It’s so wrong for Loki to be this…dull.

Loki is many things. Insane, maybe. But also clever, sharp, witty -- each word a subtle knife’s blade. Never dull . Him failing to grasp even the simplest facts doesn’t just make Bruce uncomfortable -- it almost makes him upset. It’s like some key component of the universe as he understands it has been knocked sideways.

But no.

What Loki says next is infinitely worse.

“Where’s Thor?” 

He says it uncertainly -- his voice hovering on that last word, faintly tremulous, like a hummingbird’s wing. It’s probably the quietest Bruce has ever heard him speak.

Yet from the force of the sudden spike that drives its way into Bruce’s chest, you’d think he shouted.

This bewildered, Loki’s clearly unable to guard his words. He sounds almost childish : open and innocent and unweighted by years of resentment and vitriol. Those years can’t stop him from asking about Thor now, and it’s because Loki doesn’t seem to be remembering those years.

Bruce had wondered why Thor loved Loki so much when it seemed obvious Loki didn’t give a shit about him in turn.

This simple question smashes that assumption to pieces.

It’s discomfiting.

(Bruce has been proven wrong about a lot of things lately.)

“Thor’s not here,” Bruce says.

Loki’s face shadows instantly. “Of course.”

“It’s not --” Bruce tries to defend his teammate. Better yet: Bruce finds himself trying to reassure his -- what? Enemy? Ally? Enemy-ally? On another episode of watch Bruce fail at everything because nothing makes sense , Bruce does the best he can to -- well. If he knew what , he’d probably not be failing quite so badly. “It’s not like that. He’d be here if he could, he just -- he’s not here right now. But he loves you. He really cares about you. He just doesn’t know -- how to get here, I don’t think.”

Now that Bruce is thinking about it:

Where is Thor?

Presumably, he doesn’t know Loki’s alive, so is he back with the Avengers? Did he ever look for Bruce? He’s the only one among them who can get into space easily, due to being, you know, an actual alien, although Tony’s making his best effort -- so had Thor ever gone hunting after his vanished teammate?

( Decades )

…have they all given up?

“Where is he?” Loki asks again, with a slightly different inflection this time. Emphasis on the where , not the he .

“I don’t know,” Bruce says.

Loki’s an open book right now. The disappointment that flashes across his face is starkly obvious.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce tacks on. It feels inadequate. It shouldn’t . If Loki had seen fit to share literally the bare minimum of information before, Bruce would have an answer for him now. It’s not Bruce’s fault he doesn’t.

A beat passes.

Then: “Why am I on the ground?” 

“You’re hurt,” Bruce answers, relieved to finally have a proper response. It’s true, in a way, and Bruce is not going to try to explain all the intricacies of the situation (most of which he’s only guessing at) when Loki’s like this.

“I know that,” Loki says, a bit of his usual fire bleeding through. “There’s something wrong. I can’t seem to --” 

Again, he cuts himself off, but not quickly enough that Bruce doesn’t hear the hint of fear.

Dammit.

Why can’t he make himself not care ?

“You are Asgardian,” Loki decides, finally, seeming to take comfort in being able to state something with certainty. Bruce doesn’t have the heart to correct him. “I am your prince. You will help me.”

“I am helping you,” Bruce says, strangely offended. What does Loki think Bruce has been doing the past several hours?  “I’m trying .”

“You will help me to my chambers,” Loki says, not acknowledging that. “You will be discreet about it. I don’t need news of this…embarassment…spreading all over the palace.”

“We’re not in the palace.”

Again, Loki’s forehead wrinkles in distress.

(damnit, damnit, damnit   --)

“Where are we, then?” Loki asks.

“We’re on a ship,” Bruce says, for the third time.

“Get me off of it.”

“I can’t,” Bruce says, helplessly. “We have to wait for -- for it to land.”

“I am their prince. Order them to do so.”

“You’re not their prince,” Bruce says, but before he can add, you’re not on Asgard at all , he watches Loki’s face spasm. He looks stricken.

What? Is it so awful for Loki to not be the prince of absolutely everything? Was that why he’d decided he simply must have Earth?

“You’re still a prince,” Bruce says, but that only makes it worse. The stricken look is replaced by a grim, desolately amused one, and then Loki starts to laugh: a low sound, deep in his chest, that slowly comes out faster and faster. It sends a frisson of fear into Bruce’s chest: for the first time in while, he truly sees how the Loki from New York could possibly be present in the Loki before him now.

This Loki sounds mad.

“Still a prince,” Loki repeats, laughing that insane laugh. It’s loud and uncontrolled and Bruce finds himself worrying that someone outside will hear, but he doesn’t dare to try and shush him. “Well, your prince or not, I command you return me to my chambers, for I will ruin you if you do not.”

“I can’t,” Bruce says, with a firmness he doesn’t feel. If he weren’t seated, he’s fairly sure his knees would be jelly. “We have to wait.”

“ Wait ,” Loki echoes. He turns his head away again, in such a way that strands of tangled black hair fall to obscure what little Bruce can see of his face.

A beat passes. Two. Seconds stretch into minutes that feel like they last hours. 

Then, slowly, painfully, Loki leverages his elbows to push himself into a seated position leaning against the wall. 

“ Wait ,” he says again, teeth bared bitterly, and Bruce finds himself praying even harder (and he’d been praying pretty fucking hard before) that, for both their sakes, the ship lands soon.

_

An hour passes.

It’s torture. Each second stretches agonizingly long, worsened by the cramped darkness, the gating sound of their breath, and Loki’s ever-blank stare at the opposite wall -- the whites of his eyes wide and prominent and constantly visible, because he doesn’t ever seem to blink.

At around the two-hour mark, Loki glances at Bruce again, and Bruce glances back in silence, wordlessly trying to ascertain if the other man is lucid. He can’t tell; Loki isn’t giving anything away.

Maybe a half an hour after that, a rumbling feeling makes its way through the floor beneath them. It’s so smooth he almost doubts it at first -- thinking that he might, in his desperation, merely be imagining the change.  But no, it’s definitely there. It’s almost like the purring of a particularly contented cat. Bruce can feel the vibrations in his skin.

“We’ll be able to slip out with the general crowd,” Loki says, quietly. It’s as though he’s addressing the room in general -- conversing with no one in particular -- but of course it can only be Bruce he’s speaking to. Bruce is the only one here.

At least the words somewhat provide an answer to Bruce’s question of whether he’s any more mentally ‘there’ now.

“We’re a little ways out of the way of the general ‘party’ rooms,” Bruce says deliberately, instead of jumping up and down in jubilation, which is what he really wants to do. He’s not alone anymore with this overwhelming situation. He never thought he’d be so happy to have Loki for company. “Won’t that make us conspicuous?”

Loki shakes his head. “That’s fine. There will be people coming from all directions; nobody tends to have any sense of where they are when these things are over. The ship has exits everywhere, to best facilitate a speedy finale, so the Grandmaster need not worry about his guests lingering for any longer than he wishes. Any guests who don’t leave…well, he need not worry about them, either. Topaz will take care of it.”

Who the hell is Topaz?

Also: that thing about the exits would have been nice to know several hours ago. Thanks , Scrapper 142. (Not.)

“You don’t think you’ll be…you know. Recognized?” Bruce asks uncomfortably.

Loki laughs darkly, but it’s not nearly so uncontrolled as earlier. “What does it matter if I’m recognized?”

“Well…won’t he try and stop you leaving?”

“‘ He ’?” Loki echoes. “I assume the figure you are so clumsily dancing around is the dear Grandmaster. And of course he won’t. Why would he?”

“I just thought…” Is it possible Bruce has really, really misread this?

No , he reminds himself. No, it isn’t. Loki was really fucked up less than an hour ago, and still probably is -- just to a lesser extent that he’s too proud to let Bruce see. And Scrapper 142 hadn’t exactly been subtle about her own thoughts on the matter, either -- it’s not just Bruce.

“You thought what?”

This is Loki . Bruce isn’t sure what he’ll do if Bruce actually voices all the things he’s thinking.

“Nevermind,” Bruce says.

Loki’s incredulous exhalation says he doesn’t believe that for a second, but for once, he doesn’t seem willing to press the matter.

He must really be exhausted.

To be fair, Bruce would be, too. Bruce would probably be handling this a lot worse if he were Loki.

Loki’s calmness is actually kind of disturbing. It makes Bruce wonder what’s writhing underneath it all, because that cannot possibly be his real reaction to realizing what’s… happened to him. Loki isn’t the kind of guy things happen to. Loki is the kind of guy who does the happening . Loki invaded New York --

But again: Bruce is not going to be voicing all of this. Not right now, at least.

“How long will the descent take?” Bruce asks, in lieu of all the things he really wants to ask, and also because it’s relevant information to know.

“Only a few minutes,” says Loki. “Once it gets going, which it has.”

“You said we’d just…slip away.”

“I did,” Loki says. 

“Well, I -- I was just wondering,” Bruce says, stumbling, “How, exactly, you’d planned on -- well, when you’re --”

“I’m not an invalid,” Loki snaps, correctly guessing the direction of Bruce’s thoughts. “And your tiptoeing is irritating. I won’t shatter if you say things directly. In fact, if you keep doing your fatuous little dance around every important topic, I shall give you some other little entertaining dance to do -- and I can guarantee it will only be enjoyable for one of us.”

And how, exactly, do you plan on following through with that threat, Loki? You’re not exactly hiding how much you’re relying on that wall to stay upright.

Bruce is getting remarkably good at controlling his tongue.

Practice makes perfect, and all that.

“So you’ll be able to walk out of here on your own?” Bruce challenges.

Loki’s silence is deafening. Also: incredibly telling.

That’s what I thought , Bruce thinks, grimly vindicated -- but it’s at just that moment when there’s a rougher, more noticeable movement from the floor beneath them. Then that humming, vibrating sensation fades away.

“We’ve landed,” Loki says.

He’s been saying things like that a lot; simple things, observations, all true , all spoken steadily enough…but it’s almost as though he doesn’t quite have the wit to think of anything cleverer.

He’s doing a fantastic job at hiding it, and maybe if they were somewhere else it’d be working, but Bruce has very little else to pay attention to besides Loki at the moment, so he notices anyway.

This is awful. He hates the squirming feeling in his gut. That feeling hasn’t left ever since Loki stumbled in and interrupted Bruce’s already hellish night on this hellish planet at this hellish party.

“I’m going to come over and help you up,” Bruce warns, and thinks with incredulity how quickly the dynamic between them has shifted.

Short hours before, Bruce was Loki’s prisoner -- and, he supposes, ally, but that had been pretty unwilling. Now he’s…what? Caretaker? 

Fuck, right now he and Loki might be pretty close to just being two people, in an equally shitty situation, working to claw their way out. Right now, they might be equals .

( Fuck . Right now, Bruce might be the closest thing Loki has to a friend .)

(...fuck. The same might be true in reverse.)

(What the actual hell.)

Loki doesn’t argue. He just presses his lips together so tightly Bruce can see even through the darkness how they’ve turned white and thin. 

Bruce hesitates for just a second.

Is he really about to willingly go close enough to Loki to help him to his feet, and then stay that close for however long it will take them to get back to Loki’s room?

Then he berates himself.

That’s not the kind of thing he can afford to focus on right now.

And so Bruce stands up, walks the few short feet that separate them, and crouches down next to Loki, trying to figure out exactly how to go about this. There isn’t exactly a manual or anything. He wishes there were; that would have been nice to have so many times these past twenty-four hours it’s ridiculous.

He’s just another person right now , Bruce reminds himself. You’re both just people. You can go back to being…whatever the hell it is you really are later.

Surprisingly helpful, Loki lifts up his arm to make space, and so Bruce, tentatively, loops his own arm underneath in order to leverage Loki up. This close, Bruce feels intimately the way Loki’s whole body goes tense at the change in position.

That’s fine.

That’s normal.

It’s perfectly normal for Loki to be so obviously affected by even a gentle, unobtrusive, anticipated touch.

Everything’s fine.

“Bruce, if you do not hurry up, we’ll never get off cursed vessel,” Loki says into his ear, close enough now to Bruce that Bruce can feel the warmth of his breath. He says it like another threat, but the effect is somewhat undone by the faint tremors throughout the entirety of his body that Bruce hadn’t noticed before.

Or maybe the effect is exacerbated, actually.

It means they need to get off of this thing, and the footsteps and drunken laughter he’s hearing outside of the closed closet door are telling Bruce the time to act on that desire is now. 

They’re both standing. Bruce can feel that Loki’s leaning on him at least a little bit, because the guy is goddamn heavy, but he’s not sure exactly how much .

Well. Only one way to find out.

“I’m going to start walking now,” Bruce warns, and Loki does a little huffed snarl thing deep in his throat, but it doesn’t sound like an argument. It sounds like he’s bracing himself.

And so Bruce proceeds to do just as he’d said. He takes one step forward, and then another -- straining a little underneath Loki’s bulk. And it doesn’t seem like that’s even half of his actual weight; from what he can tell, Loki’s mostly supporting himself, and only relying on Bruce a little bit. Which is a relief. Bruce doesn’t know if he’d be able to manage this on his own if Loki wasn’t.

How is it possible that such a lanky guy is so heavy ?

“I’ll get the door,” Loki says -- a simple generosity, but still one Bruce wouldn’t have in a thousand years suspected him capable of had someone interviewed him about it two days ago.

(or decades ago -- )

And so, together, they burst from the closet, a stumbling surge of interconnected arms and disorganized feet. Bruce doesn’t want to imagine what that would look like were anyone paying attention to them, but fortunately, nobody is. The hallway’s not very full -- besides him and Loki, there’s only two reptilian-looking women, clad in spidery black clothes that Bruce can’t help but notice cover absolutely nothing . They’re stumbling their way along the wall several yards ahead, drunkenly chattering in a language Bruce doesn’t understand. Loki starts to follow after them, and Bruce could fight that, but he has absolutely no reason to. Right now, he’s just relieved that someone else is sort-of in charge.

(he’s relieved that Loki is in charge, what the hell --)

From there, the rest of their journey back to Loki’s room is somewhat of a blur. Loki was right; there is an exit very close by, and nobody so much as tries to stop them from leaving. The ramp deposits them into what seems to be a holding tarmac of sorts for a collection of bright, bold, garish spaceships -- the “party” one they exit from isn’t the only one here. It’s not even close to the largest, either -- positively dwarfed in comparison to a candy-apple-green one that looms dramatically in the distance. There are glittering gold ships, sleek black ships, ships the size of an ordinary car and ships the size of houses and ships even larger than that -- practically airborne cruise vessels. Bruce is reminded again that he’s on an alien planet, and he has to tamp down on the sudden impulse to explore everything immediately. He thinks: Tony would love this place . He thinks: I should learn as much as I can so I can report back. I should take pictures. I should draw diagrams. I should try and figure out how they work so that Tony can replicate and probably even improve them.

He thinks: none of that is possible .

And so he and Loki just keep walking (well, limping-stumbling) out, without pausing to look at any of the magnificent ships at all. It sends a pang of disappointment into Bruce’s chest, even if they do probably all belong to the absolute asshole that is the Grandmaster. That doesn’t mean they’re not still fantastic. They’re alien .

And not Thor’s kind of alien , which seems more medieval most of the time, actually. No; legitimate, sci-fi movie alien , high tech and impressive.

Of course Bruce would only get to see them at the worst possible time to properly appreciate the experience.

That tracks with his overall luck in life, doesn’t it?

They leave through a side door, that leads into a hallway, that leads into grand, garishly decorated possibly-ballroom, gold and shining. And then another side door, that leads into another hallway, that leads into another hallway, that finally leads into another hallway, and this one Bruce actually somewhat recognizes.

Or he thinks he does. He thinks it’s the same hallway Scrapper 142 had forced his hovering prison chair to follow, back when Bruce was under the impression that Loki would be the worst of his problems.

(ha. Hahahahaha -- )

He’s proven right in his assumption when Loki stops in front of that nondescript door, recognizable only in its comparative blandness to the rest of this place, and proceeds to maneuver himself so that he’s no longer relying on Bruce to stay standing and instead is leaning on the wall next to the door for support. Bruce tries not to pay attention to the way that makes the thin fabric of Loki’s tunic shift revealingly; tries even harder not to pay attention to the way Loki just seems to accept that.

Or maybe he doesn’t even notice.

Abruptly, for the first time since he arrived, Bruce feels the first real stirrings of the Hulk.

The violent green thing beneath Bruce’s skin wants to go back and destroy someone . Preferably, some voice whispers, the host of that utterly nightmarish party.

It’s a surge of protectiveness that both shocks and almost scares him.

This is Loki .

Of all people to make the Hulk strain to come out…it shouldn’t be Loki .

At least not in this way.

Not in this way where Bruce’s anger isn’t directed at Loki , but on Loki’s behalf .

Loki holds up his wrist to a thin silver strip embedded beneath the door. The entire strip blinks purple, and then the door swings open. Loki, using the frame to help him, hobbles his way inside, and Bruce follows, wondering absently how something seemingly DNA based would work when Loki never actually touched the reader.

It takes him a beat to realize he does so willingly.

He is willingly following Loki back into his room.

Loki makes a beeline straight for the bed. Well, beeline for the given definition of that word -- his steps are halting and trembling, but he does manage to cross the open expanse of floor without support, which ought to count for something. Loki seats himself down at the head of the bed with a put-upon dignity that does absolutely nothing to fool Bruce at this point. His ramrod-straight spine finally slumps a little; some of the tension he’s been carrying seems to dissipate.

Loki looks at Bruce, some thought hovering just behind his eyes. Then:

“Here,” Loki says abruptly, and tosses one of the pillows onto the floor with less force than he probably intended to display. His mouth twists, but regardless, he follows that action by ripping off the decorative topping to the bedspread.

What .

Bruce realizes his mouth has fallen open slightly in surprise. He hurries to close it.

Those can’t possibly be for Bruce .

But who else would they be for?

It’s yet another unexpected kindness. Yet another thing that proves Loki has the capacity to think about somebody other than himself.

Granted, it’s not like it’s the most generous thing in the world -- the bed topping looks scratchy and stiff, even if somewhat thicker than typical, and the pillow was singular out of maybe six total on the bed -- but it’s still leagues more than Bruce was expecting Loki to set aside for a “puny mortal”. Especially one whose alter-ego horribly humiliated him once upon a time.

Maybe being drugged with an identity-altering drug really has altered Loki at his core.

(Or maybe Loki at his core isn’t exactly what Bruce thought)

And so Bruce moves forward to collect the bedding, half-expecting Loki to snatch it back and reveal that everything was some grand joke, that actually Loki’s perfectly alright after all, and also, he’s going to torture Bruce now for daring to presume he can take some of Loki’s stuff. 

But Loki doesn’t. He just exhales, low and deep, before laying slowly, deliberately, and probably painfully down on the bed. He pulls the remaining blanket over himself, turns away from Bruce, and then claps his hands. The bright light overhead disappears. Now that Bruce is looking for the source of it, he isn’t exactly sure where the light was coming from in the first place, considering as he doesn’t see any bulbs or lamps. How does that work ?

He has a million questions, and that’s probably the least important of them. What, exactly, happened with the Grandmaster? What’s Loki’s position with the Grandmaster now -- do they have to work out another plan, or try to implement their current one sooner? Are they in greater danger? Where is Thor really? Why is Loki here in the first place? Why did Loki turn blue ?

But Bruce is abruptly exhausted. He’s been running on sheer tension up until now, and now that he’s slightly safer, those energy reserves seem to have abandoned him. And isn’t that terribly funny, that his body now considers a room alone with Loki to be “slightly safer”?

And Loki’s clearly tired too.

Bruce’s questions can wait until the morning, he decides, dragging his bedding over to the far corner from Loki, because he’s still not stupid. He arranges the blanket cover underneath him so that it’s as comfortable as possible -- the floor is hard, but at least the air is a pleasant temperature, so he won’t be cold -- and then lies down.

He’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

Bruce wakes up content.

He’d dreamt some dream involving a porcupine -- only, strangely, the porcupine had for some reason been in Bruce’s bed, trying to build a nest with Bruce’s blankets. Bruce had no idea if porcupines even built nests, but this dream-porcupine did, apparently. Only it was failing, because Bruce’s blankets were tucked in too tightly. Which was the second strange thing about the situation; Bruce usually hated tucked-in blankets. The porcupine was devastated about this failing. It kept looking back at him and twitching its whiskered face pathetically. Bruce didn’t know if porcupines had whiskers, either -- and really, now that he was focusing on it, this was more a blobby abstraction of a porcupine than an actual porcupine. It had spikes, at least. It was all very confusing.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce tried to tell the insubstantial almost-porcupine. “I didn’t do it, it isn’t my fault.”

For some reason, he didn’t move to help, and that helpless realization sent a bolt of anxiety through him. He didn’t know why he couldn’t help. He knew he could do something, but what that thing was eluded him. The solution was just as blobby and insubstantial as the porcupine.

“ Honestly ,” said a voice, dry as dust, and then a slender figure with longish black hair was striding past him towards the bed and reaching out to yank the sheets and blankets free. The porcupine made an excited squealing sound, but now that it had what it wanted, it didn’t even seem to care about its nest anymore. Without a backwards glance towards the blankets it had once been so concerned with, it jumped off the bed and raced away into the forest, which suddenly began to manifest all around them. Bruce looked around in wide-eyed wonder at trees of all shapes and sizes and colors -- gold and orange and red, with a kind of vibrance unmatched by reality. They stretched up into the sky for what seemed like miles. The air was saturated with the scent of fresh pine. 

The porcupine was gone, but Bruce had mostly forgotten about the porcupine, now. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was climb a tree -- and so he did. Only he wasn’t making much progress. The tree was too tall, and Bruce was too tired, and the journey just seemed to go on and on. Branches snapped beneath the weight of his feet and hands. He slipped and fell every time he seemed to make any progress at all. He wasn’t afraid, having absorbed the fearlessness that comes from dreaming, but he was frustrated. He was failing, but like before, he didn’t know why he was failing -- only that he was.

Someone tossed him a rope. By that time, Bruce was so upset that he didn’t even pause to consider whether or not the rope was trustworthy, and he grabbed on immediately. It began to move -- pulling him up and up -- and eventually he reached the top of the tree, which was right next to the moon.

A glittering gold starship soared past. Tony was in the passenger seat, and he shouted out the open window: “Look, Brucie-bear!”

He pointed, but before Bruce could see what Tony was pointing to, he woke up.

It was a strange dream, but somehow also comforting, even in its absurdity. A welcome reprieve from reality.

And so Bruce wakes up content.

He doesn’t expect to stay that way. Still, that warm, rested feeling remains even as the decidedly uncontented memories he’s collected (unwillingly!) over the past few days begin to flood his brain. They are sharp and jagged in comparison to the pillowlike softness of the dream. They hurt. 

Bruce is sick of hurting. He feels like he’s been hurting more often than not, ever since Hulk decided to take up residence in his very body -- and so maybe it’s foolish, and maybe it’s childish, but he chooses to push those memories back a little while longer. He allows himself a few more moments of not focusing on them, and instead sinks back into the cloud-like, blissful lightness that comes with the ignorance of not yet having woken up.

And anyway, it’s still dark in the world beyond his closed eyelids -- which is strange, because his body is telling him it’s morning. He certainly doesn’t feel tired; in fact, he feels better-rested than he usually does, even after a seven or eight-hour night of sleep. That can only lend itself to the assumption that he has in fact slept even longer this time.

Or maybe he just really needed the sleep, he acknowledges wryly. That may be the true reason he feels so much better than normal. Less of a real better, and more of how even a papercut feels rather nice in comparison to a severed arm.

Deciding that he can no longer justify his stubborn inaction, Bruce blinks open his eyes.

He was right; it is still pitch dark.

There are no windows, which he’s used to being the marker of morning. There are no clocks, either, and even if there were, he probably wouldn’t know their meaning. He has no idea what time it is. It could be midnight or three in the afternoon.

His gaze wanders a little, inevitably landing on the bed across the room.

He blinks once or twice. Rubs his eyes to make the scene come into better focus. 

But yes -- there is a decisive lump directly in the center of a mound of blankets.

(like his dream-hedgehog’s nest, Bruce thinks nonsensically, still addled by sleep. Loki’s a little hedgehog in there. Prickly)

He waits a second, blinking some more as he tries to ascertain if Loki is awake or not, and finally decides he isn’t. It’s more than a bit shocking, although perhaps it shouldn’t be. 

It’s just…he hadn’t expected Loki to allow himself to sleep that long, with Bruce in the room. He hadn’t expected him to allow himself that vulnerability.

But then, he supposes. Loki’s been much more vulnerable than this in front of Bruce already. Maybe he’s decided any potential damage has already been done.

Well, good , Bruce finds himself concluding.

Loki needs the sleep. 

He even manages to tamp down on the instinctive urge to buck against that thought. To fight it. To deny it. He manages to force himself to accept it as his own.

He would just be lying to himself, and he knows it. Worse, it would be a useless lie, because Bruce wouldn’t believe it. He’s an awful liar, especially to himself.

Loki could probably help him out with that. “God of Lies” and all.

He sits there a moment, thinking about nothing in particular, his eyes on the mound that is Loki but not really processing it, before he shakes himself. He can’t afford to drift amid that sort of vagueness. He’s stranded in a place where even Bruce at his sharpest probably wouldn’t be able to survive help (without Loki), and he knows that, and he needs to focus .

Even if it’s not on escape, or on any particularly pressing issue, or even on Loki, he needs to focus on something . He can’t slip away.

Focus .

What had Loki done to turn the lights off, last night? He had clapped. Could Bruce clap -- would that turn the lights back on? He sort of wants to try, just for the novelty, even though it’s nothing JARVIS  couldn’t make happen back at Stark Tower if Bruce really wanted it. Somehow it’s different here, because this is an alien planet, with alien systems reacting to the motion and sound of Bruce’s very human hands.

He desperately wants to try, but he doesn’t -- worried he’ll wake Loki up. He forces himself not to fight that thought, either. So what if he’s concerned about Loki’s health? It’s only logical after what he saw last night. It’s pragmatic, even -- he needs Loki in order to have any shot at getting out of this place, and he needs Loki to be fully functioning in order for Bruce to have the best shot possible. Ordinary human beings most definitely need extra sleep to fight off the influence of malicious drugs. To be honest, Loki’s a lot closer to an “ordinary human being” than Bruce had ever dreamed back in 2012.

Although he’s still not human . Bruce shudders to think of what that drug would have done to someone like Clint, someone like Natasha.

They might’ve died.

(...how had the Grandmaster, who is not Asgardian as far as Bruce knows, known that Loki would react — well, fine is a stretch, but okay — to his hellish cocktail?)

(or had that been part of the fun? Part of the experiment? Had he smiled that deceptively childish smile as he watched Loki’s eyes glaze over, as he watched his knees start to tremble, jelly-like, in that way they had, in that way he tried to disguise in front of Bruce and Scrapper 142? Had the Grandmaster bounced on his toes in glee?)

(Scrapper 142 had said: suggestible )

(She had said: they can make you whoever they want you to be )

(Had the Grandmaster told Loki, like he’d told Bruce when he arrived: oh, you poor lost thing, let me help you, let me welcome you -- oh, your name? It’s Lolo, you’re mine, sweetheart -- )

Bruce cuts himself off with a sinking feeling of disgust.

He looks back at the lump on the bed. He doesn’t turn the light on; instead, he closes his eyes again, and thinks desperately, longingly, of home.

_

Loki wakes up a little while later.

Bruce hadn’t been able to go back to sleep -- he doesn’t have a lick of tiredness left in his body -- but he had drifted lazily, for a time, on the current of his thoughts, which had randomly landed on his favorite cupcake shop back in New York. He’d been crafting his next order mentally: chocolate, with a buttercream vanilla frosting, with a nutty decorative drizzle. He’d resolved to himself that when -- when, not if -- he got back to New York, that would be the first thing he ordered. In fact, he’d order two . He rather thinks he deserves it after the hell he’s been through.

Loki doesn’t say good morning. Bruce only knows he’s awake because he does the clappy-thing that turns the lights on and it shocks Bruce with the sudden brightness. Bruce is squinting furiously as he watches Loki get up and, without acknowledging the other resident of the room, make for the bathroom with dull eyes. A second later, the water starts to run.

And run.

And run.

When Loki comes out, his hair is soaking wet, and all exposed skin Bruce can see is a bright lobster red. He’s also in different clothes -- he must have had some stored away, because Bruce didn’t seem him stop to grab any on his way in. They’re not plain by any means -- a dazzling green that matches his eyes -- but they are nowhere near as revealing as his party attire. Bruce finds himself relieved.

He also finds himself examining Loki’s eyes to see if they’re ringed with any more red then normal, feeling invasive in his curiosity, but also undeniably curious -- because Loki’s proven himself a real person in a million other ways, but Bruce still finds himself doubting that Loki could be that real -- could be plagued by an affliction so ordinary as tears.

He can’t tell. The rest of Loki is too red.

One of the disadvantages of being pale, Bruce supposes; any color shows through much more strongly, to the extent that Loki rather looks like he’s been lightly cooked.

As Loki apparently isn’t going to be the one to do it, Bruce dares to be the one to speak first. “Good morning.” He pushes himself into a seated position, cross-legged on the bed cover Loki so graciously donated last night. 

Loki shoots him a look that is far too close to a glare, Bruce thinks, than warranted, considering the pains Bruce went through recently to help him. Still, he eventually says back, flatly: “Good morning.”

Bruce thinks of voicing what he’d wanted to last night, which was I have questions .

Somehow, now doesn’t seem like the right time.

Then again: it will probably never be the right time.

Still, Bruce never claimed not to like the easy route. It’s called the easy route for a reason. He’ll push that problem off a little while longer, and pretend it isn’t looming over him in the distance, like some grand, menacing balloon. At least for the next little while.

Loki goes over to the table and chairs he conjured earlier -- which are still there, Bruce realizes, a bit surprised, having somehow expected whatever magic summoned them to weaken as Loki weakened, such it often does in books -- and sits down. 

He hadn’t seemed to care much for sitting earlier. He’d preferred to stand, which was more intimidating.

Now, Bruce could brush that change in behavior aside.

Or he could find it suspicious. He could find it, maybe, a sign that a good night’s sleep and “time” wasn’t a miracle cure, after all.

Or Loki’s just tired, still. That’s also possible.

Another cause for suspicion is the way Loki slumps back in his chair and closes his eyes. Weakness . Loki’s gone to great pains to not appear as such, before, so it is in fact incredibly suspicious that he does so now. Comment-worthy, in fact, if Bruce were brave enough to comment.

He is not. 

Instead, he awkwardly wonders if he’s comfortable enough to ask Loki about freshening up himself . It’s been a good while. Sniffing himself discreetly, Bruce’s nostrils are greeted with the strange, sickly-sweet aroma that had hung heavily in party -- mingling, now, with his own stale body odor. He can’t decide if the body odor improves or worsens the party scent.

Regardless: he’d like a shower.

He feels grimy in more ways than one.

“Do you --” Bruce begins, and stops when he sees the way Loki startles, stiffens. Tries to hide it. Swallowing, he begins again, “Do you mind if I clean up?”

“Do you think I enjoy your putrid stench?” Loki says in response, which is probably the closest thing Bruce is going to get to a yes. He stands and heads for the bathroom immediately, both because he doesn’t want Loki to change his mind, and also because a shower suddenly sounds heavenly.

But oh. Wait. Alien shower.

Stepping inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him, he suddenly realizes that he hadn’t noticed any particular area dedicated to bathing before. There’s just the strange sink and the strange toilet, and Loki’s lonely hairbrush on its shelf, and the space Bruce stands in now, which is just an empty tiled floor, cool beneath his bare feet.

He must have taken his shoes off before sleeping, although he doesn’t remember doing so.

…he may have to ask Loki.

He does not want to ask Loki.

Thankfully, Loki’s somehow able to read his mind -- somehow able predict Bruce’s question before he even says it. His voice is exasperated, derisive, as he calls out: “Just take off your clothes and tap the button on the wall to the left.” You dull thing is not vocalized but is heavily implied.

Bruce looks left. Sure enough, there’s a button there, small and unobtrusive, mostly blending into the wall. It’s little wonder he missed it last time. It’s both tiny and exactly the same texture as the wall surrounding it, only distinguished by being a faintly different color of blue.

Tap the button to the left ?

That’s incredibly vague. Will the button reveal a secret shower, or something? He thinks about asking for clarification, but he doesn’t want to try Loki’s patience further.

He still has to keep in mind who, exactly, Loki is .

He is not Tony. He is not even Thor. He is not Bruce’s friend.

He is just…a person. Who Bruce happens to be stuck with right now.

That does not mean he’s the kind of person Bruce wants to irritate. 

So, thinking fuck it , Bruce decides to just roll with it, shrugging off the weird red alien tunic and searching for a place to hang it. There are no visible hooks. In the end, he ends up setting it, gingerly, on the shelf where Loki’s hairbrush resides. 

Then he presses the button.

FUCK FUCK FUCK --

He is instantly doused in icy water. 

Bruce yelps and gropes the wall for the button, hoping desperately that a second press will turn it off. It does, but now Bruce is stuck standing there, dripping, shivering. Each droplet that slides from his skin vanishes before it hits the floor.

Oh . So that’s how the “shower” works.

Outside, Loki is laughing. It is light and unguarded and genuine .

Asshole , Bruce thinks, but it is perhaps more fond than it should be.

The laughter sounds warm. It sounds young .

And to be perfectly honest, a cold shower is comparatively benign when it comes to all the things Loki’s done already, and all the things he could have done.

“So,” Bruce says, a bit clipped, because he’s still cold even if Loki’s laughter was surprisingly nice to listen to, “Care to share the secret to warm water?”

The laughter grows louder, then dwindles. Still sounding mirthful, Loki says, “There are two buttons. The other one is higher up -- you are just tiny, and Midgardian, and so didn’t notice it.”

Bruce looks up.

There is , in fact, another button.

This time he doesn’t just blindly press it; he doesn’t trust that Loki isn’t setting him up for another “hilarious” failure.

“Truly,” Loki says, perhaps noticing the lack of running water, “It will be warm. The same jest is not funny twice, I assure you. I am not Thor .”

Really? Bruce thinks, because that was exactly the kind of juvenile prank he’s convinced his teammate would attempt if he could.

He does not say so aloud.

He does press the button, however, bracing himself against another frozen flood -- only to find the water that rushes to meet him a perfect temperature. Relieved, he relaxes into it. He then looks around for a soap to perhaps have conveniently manifested -- but wait. The water is…

Already soapy?

Apparently he doesn’t need soap; the Sakaaran alien water comes pre-equipped, as evidenced by the small suds swirling around on his skin. Now that he’s looking, the liquid raining down is faintly pink, and a bit tingly. 

Normal soap doesn’t usually tingle. This is probably not entirely normal soap, then.

Well. Bruce doesn’t think it’ll kill him. It doesn’t hurt so far. In fact, it feels unexpectedly nice. Warm. Comforting. A liquid hug.

Bruce closes his eyes and lets the strange soap-water sluice over his exposed face, his shoulders, his arms. 

But heaven can’t last forever -- he knows that unfortunately well -- and he’s also loathe to leave Loki alone out there, doing who-knows-what. As much as he doesn’t think Loki’s actively malicious anymore, he’s also not comfortable with the guy being out of his site.

He’s also not really comfortable with Loki in his sight.

A bit of a conundrum, that.

Bruce presses the button to stop the soap-but-not-really-soap-water from flowing, and gets dressed once more in the ridiculous red outfit. He doesn’t have another one, and it’s still mostly clean.

He wonders what Loki plans to do about the subject of Bruce’s clothes long-term.

Is Bruce meant to just keep borrowing Loki’s indefinitely?

( Not indefinitely, he corrects himself. He’s going home soon)

Keeping that thought firmly in mind, Bruce re-enters the room, bracing himself for any number of things -- it is Loki , after all, and for all he knows the room will be full of -- oh, he can’t even begin to guess. Decapitated birds? It doesn’t matter. His preparation is for naught; he finds Loki in exactly the same position he’d left him. Now, however, there’s the addition of a wrapped package on the table. Loki gestures to it: “Breakfast, Bruce?”

I never gave you permission to call me Bruce , Bruce thinks. Then: So he’s still holding onto the whole mysterious food advantage from earlier. Doesn’t trust that I’ll follow through with the things I said I would, even though I have literally no other options right now.

Mistrustful to the end.

Shocker. 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Bruce asks instead. 

Loki artfully ignores that. “I’ll be heading into the city. I trust you’ll be able to manage staying put? You ought to be fine so long as you don’t actively go seeking trouble.” His disparaging look says he’s not even sure if Bruce will manage that much.

Suddenly,the whole food thing is forgotten.

“What?” Bruce blurts out. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Loki says, not a trace of a joke about him. The lone word drops from his mouth like a heavy stone; it seems to want to drag Bruce down with it.

‘No’.

Of course not .

“I don’t think you’re in any state to be going out alone right now,” Bruce says. Then, upon seeing the way Loki’s face contorts furiously, he backtracks. “I mean -- who knows what the Grandmaster’s planning? He could have sent people out to hurt you, or somebody completely unrelated might try to get at you separate from him, because apparently everyone on this planet is a fucking vulture -- or, I don’t know --”

“I’ll be fine,” Loki interrupts coldly. “There is little those swine can do to me if I do not allow it.”

Yeah, sure. Because you “allowed” everything else that happened last night .

Although…maybe Loki thought he had .

“Can’t you just wait a little bit? Let things die down?”

If possible, Loki’s face goes even more glacial. If Bruce were touching him, he’s convinced he’d get hypothermia. 

“This is not something that can wait,” Loki says, decisively, as though that’s the end of the argument. Perhaps he thinks it is. Perhaps he’s confused as to why Bruce thinks he gets any input at all.

Well, fuck you , Bruce thinks. It’s both of their futures that Loki’s putting on the line. 

“Why?” Bruce challenges.

Loki almost snarls at him. Then, visibly gathering himself, he says, “I’d like to speed the progression of this…ailment…through my system. There are medicines that can help.”

“Scrapper 142 didn’t seem to think there were.”

A beat.

“When did Scrapper 142 offer her opinion?” Loki demands, eyebrows rocketing up to the very top of his forehead. “Did you take me to her , of all the scumbags on this planet? Are you in fact an imbecile?”

So he doesn’t remember that part of the whole ordeal, apparently. He has no recollection of Scrapper 142’s surprising, unexpected bout of empathy -- the empathy that had been their saving grace. 

But Loki’s now looking like he wants to murder someone, and like Bruce is the only person in the vicinity, and so Bruce needs to work rapidly to defuse the situation before somebody’s entrails end up on the floor.

“I didn’t take you to her!” Bruce says quickly. “She just…showed up. She was standing next to me when you entered the room. She recognized whatever the hell you’d been drugged with pretty quickly, and for some reason I don’t understand, she decided to help -- which I’m grateful for, by the way.”

“Oh?” Loki says darkly. “She recognized it ‘pretty quickly’? She just happened to be there to help?” He scoffs a laugh, and Bruce’s stomach sinks down to his toes.

He wants to say Loki’s being paranoid. It’s a very obviously paranoid train of thought.

And yet…he can’t entirely discount it from the realm of possibility.

Loki does know this place better than Bruce. From what Bruce has been able to gather, it even seems likely that he has a better understanding of Scrapper 142. If Loki thinks Scrapper 142 is bad news, she probably is.

Still. Still .

Something about her had seemed genuine. And Bruce likes to think he has good instincts about these sorts of things. 

Maybe Bruce is just gullible, but he’s not willing to be as immediately and instinctively suspicious and pessimistic as Loki. Maybe the guy has good reason, but it also seems like an awful way to live. 

“She was the one who showed me where to find that closet I hid you in,” Bruce says.

“Oh? And she stuck around, did she? Helped tend me?” Loki’s flat stare says he already knows the answer.

“No.” Quietly. It feels like giving up.

“No,” Loki affirms mercilessly. “She watched, and she hid her laughter and her glee, and then she went back to report to the Grandmaster. She is no friend of mine; she would have relished in my suffering. She probably suggested that very drug to the Grandmaster in hopes of having a lovely little spectacle for herself. Some up-close entertainment to liven up that endless, pathetic haze she sleepwalks through.”

The picture Loki paints is horrifying, if true. Nauseating, even. 

But it’s still an if . For some reason, Bruce still doesn’t feel like that’s right -- but he can’t deny that he has no real evidence to disprove Loki’s theory.

“Therefore,” Loki continues, “I will be following my own knowledge, and going in search of remedies for the symptoms I recognize -- yes, in the city, and yes, within striking range of all those other pathetic little lifeforms, and they will not hurt me because they cannot . And you will not argue, because if you do I will grow tired of you, and throw you out for the Grandmaster to play with in his Arena after all. Do you understand?”

“Fine,” Bruce says, surprising himself, and doesn’t wait for Loki’s smile to grow to completion before he adds, “ Fine . Do it your way. But I’m coming with you.”

Chapter Text

The streets of Sakaar are overwhelming.

They’ve got that same crowded feeling as the Grandmaster’s party, which makes Bruce suspect that maybe Sakaar is just ‘that kind of planet’ (and isn’t that a statement!). However, both fortunately and unfortunately, these streets aren’t exactly the same. They’re simultaneously worse and better. Worse because of their sheer magnitude : they are so much larger, and brighter, and noisier, and that means they are infinitely easier to get lost in. The amount of different species is insane. The amount of different languages , and technologies, and --

If Loki didn’t insist on Bruce staying glued to his side, Bruce would probably have gotten swept away in the crushing flow the moment they’d left the Grandmaster’s palace. In this case, Bruce admits reluctantly, Loki’s paranoia is probably justified. 

However, “outside” is better in nearly every other way. The air is open, allowing the smells (still awfully sweet) to disperse farther, diluting their effect. The only sounds he hears are ordinary conversation -- or so Bruce assumes, considering he can make out the words of only a few species. Which is strange. He would have thought it’d be all or nothing, more likely “nothing”, because why would aliens speak English , of all languages?

But he doesn’t linger on that oddity long, because best yet: everyone is properly clothed .

For the most part.

Bruce will give a pass to the short, slimy, gooey-looking beings that look like clothes wouldn’t even work on. Perhaps that’s just because he can’t really bring his mind to think of them as being naked , not in the same way the at least human- adjacent looking species clearly were back on the Grandmaster’s ship. Perhaps that’s one of his Earthen limitations; maybe the goo aliens really are being horribly indecent to everyone who knows better.

But nobody’s reacting as though that’s the case. So Bruce is going to say they’re fine.

It probably says something that the whole aliens thing -- with alien streets, and alien market stalls, and alien conversation -- isn’t even what’s holding most of his attention.

No.

That would be Loki.

He’s stiff-backed and stiff-legged -- his steps are jolting, uneven, and upon examination, Bruce realizes his knees aren’t folding properly. Probably Bruce wouldn’t have noticed, before, but he knows Loki now -- knows him well enough, at least, to recognize the tension evident in every sharp angle of his body.

His eyes are darting to and fro, seemingly in search of something, but Bruce can’t understand how Loki could possibly know if he’d found it -- they’re moving too fast. They’re about a hair’s breadth from their speed march turning into a full-out run.

“Useless mortals,” Loki snarls beneath his breath. “ Hurry .”

Bruce is not unhealthy, but neither is he in-shape enough to “hurry” to the extent Loki has (ridiculously) decided necessary.

Why do they need to hurry, again? They’re only making themselves more conspicuous. 

“Why are we running?” Bruce asks, huffing slightly.

Loki shoots him a filthy glare. “Go back to the palace, then. I care not.”

(and yet he hadn’t argued nearly hard enough against the prospect of Bruce coming in the first plac e )

(Bruce thinks that’s more telling than even an immediate agreement would have been.)

(At least then he could have pretended Loki had alternative motivations.)

“I’m not going back to the palace,” Bruce says, exasperated. “I just think we should slow down. We’re more noticeable this way.”

Loki actually hisses . “You would think so.”

What is that supposed to mean? “Yeah. I would, actually.”

“We don’t want to look lost ,” Loki says. “And as you are the most sad-little-lost-looking person in the vicinity --” Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but Loki cuts him off, “We need to look extra purposeful to make up for it.”

Bruce feels oddly offended.

Which is strange. Loki’s been insulting him since he arrived.

But honestly . Honestly. Out of the two of them, Bruce wouldn’t say he’s the one acting lost. Maybe direction-wise, because this is an entirely different planet, but he doesn’t think that’s the kind of lost Sakaar preys on.

But. But whatever. If it’ll make Loki chill out even the tiniest bit, Bruce will keep pretending that them walking fast and purposefully is helping anything.

Although Loki had said nothing could hurt him. This incredible magnitude of tension is not lending credence to that claim.

But what had Bruce expected?

Loki lies . That’s his whole thing.

Still…

“What are we even looking for?”

“ We are looking for nothing,” Loki says. “ I am looking. You have, for reasons beyond me, decided to attach yourself to this little excursion like a clingy babe.”

Does Loki think Bruce is here for himself ?

“Fine,” Bruce says, patience rapidly dissipating. “What are you looking for, then?”

“You need not know.”

Seriously. Fuck Loki.

Frustrated, Bruce turns away. Loki doesn’t want Bruce’s help. He shouldn’t bother wasting this opportunity to see an alien marketplace by trying to keep an eye on the guy, even though Bruce had been trying to make sure Loki didn’t legitimately collapse . Loki is not that far removed from the sheer delirium he’d been consumed by last night, much as he seems to be pretending he is. They’re in this market for a reason, and that reason is not Bruce wanting to sightsee.

But whatever. If Loki’s going to be an asshole about it (because when is he ever not ), then Bruce is going to try and learn as much as he can about this place, for the inevitable moment that Tony and/or Natasha grills him about it. It’s the very least he’s owed. 

(and they will grill him about it, it is inevitable because Bruce will return --)

He’d worry about getting lost, only he’s pretty sure Loki’s worrying enough about that for the both of them. 

The street is rather wide for a street, Bruce notices, now that he’s paying further attention. It’s not even one street, because there doesn’t seem to be a definitive “central” part. People seem to have just set up stalls wherever -- in the center, on the sides, and even stacked on top of one another (as is the case of two boxy, scrappy-looking metal stalls advertising some type of green pastry). And that disorganization doesn’t matter , doesn’t have any effect on traffic efficiency, because people who aren’t walking just zip above it all on little personal hovercraft. The sky is the real street, where the Sakaaran common equivalent of cars are, and it means there’s more space below for people to set up shop.

Huh.

He tries to follow one of the hovercraft with his eyes to see where (or if) it lands -- because it does look like it’s descending -- only there’s so many up there that he keeps losing track of it as it weaves in and out of the others. He squints. He thinks it’s the same one that just disappeared behind that teetering tower-thing and emerged again, but he can’t be certain. Maybe --

Bruce suddenly finds himself jerked out of the way of an irate-looking horned creature who seems to manifest out of nowhere at all. He nearly falls over at the unexpected motion, pedaling his feet rapidly to stay upright as he stumbles back.

The creature is gibbering something furiously at him as they storm past. Bruce watches their long, reddish-black plaited braid whip from side to side behind them, feeling almost out of himself -- as though he is watching it all happen from somewhere far removed. As though it is on a screen, almost.

Just as it seems they’re going to leave without further acknowledgement, the alien pauses and turns back, spitting something aggressive that sounds like it’s probably choice words. Bruce is forced back into the present moment.

“I’m sorry!” he yelps.

The creature’s glare worsens. Clearly, they aren’t one of the English-speaking aliens. Bruce could never be that fortunate.

“I do apologize for my dull companion, here,” Loki says suddenly, next to him. His voice (and presence in general), startle Bruce -- Loki’d managed to make himself surprisingly unobtrusive for a six-foot-something alien sort-of-enemy who Bruce had been actively focusing on just a few minutes ago. Berating himself for his observational skills, Bruce looks up to find that Loki has a charming smile plastered across his face as he continues, “He has a limited repertoire of manners. Apparently looking where he is going is not one of the skills he feels like employing on this particular day. I assure you, he feels terribly guilty about it. Doesn’t he ?” Bruce feels a sharp squeeze on his upper arm, and he struggles not to flinch. Of course it had been Loki to yank him out of the way. Who else would it have been?

The creature says something else, seemingly in response.

“No, thank you,” Loki says, sugar-sweet, mouth smiling but eyes tight. “We already have a destination in mind. We are not tourists.”

They hiss something that sounds like an insult, or maybe an expression of disbelief.

“No, thank you ,” Loki says, firmer. His nails are digging into Bruce’s arm. Bruce tries to tug his way free, now that there’s no active reason for Loki to be holding on to him, to no avail.

Lovely.

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Finally, with a huff through serpentine-looking nostrils, the being storms away with crossed arms. Apparently that gesture of annoyance is universal.

As is, apparently, English…? 

Only they hadn’t seemed to understand when Bruce had spoken -- only when Loki had.

Loki is still holding on to him .

Finally, Bruce says, “Hey, umm, mind  -- letting me go now?”

“No,” Loki says, sounding like he’s seconds away from doing something much worse than just hold Bruce. “No, I don’t think I will, as you imbecile apparently can’t manage to stay unobtrusive for more than five seconds. Therefore, I shall be keeping a closer eye on you from now on.”

Okay, then.

“And you can’t do that…you know…visually?”

“No.”

Okay, then.

And then they’re moving again, with such force and momentum that Bruce almost worries Loki will yank his arm out of the socket. Humans aren’t meant to walk this fast (or Bruce isn’t, at least), but somehow he doesn’t think Loki will care if he complains, so he doesn’t even try.

Why. Why had he ever thought -- even for a moment -- that tagging along on this excursion could possibly be a good idea?

(Because he cares . That’s why.)

(Because he isn’t as much of an asshole as Loki is)

(Because he actually feels guilt sometimes)

(Sometimes to his detriment)

It’s while he’s lost amidst these thoughts that, somewhere in the periphery of his vision, Bruce spots a flash of -- blue? 

It gives him pause. The sight tickles some cobwebbed corner of his brain. He knows that color. He --

He knows that color.

( Loki had been that color , he thinks, s prawled out on the floor, and Bruce had been saying something -- he had been saying you are Asgardian, from Asgard, you are -- )

“Hey,” Bruce says, and then, when Loki doesn’t look over to acknowledge him: “ Hey . Slow down.”

To no avail.

He’s run out of patience. He suddenly doesn’t care that it’s Loki he’s speaking to; he just says something, the way he would to any of his teammates if they were being stupid. Advice -- although can it really be considered advice if it’s just common sense?

Bruce says, “Why don’t we ask someone where the medicine or whatever you’re looking for is?”

And then Loki does look over at him, and Bruce very abruptly wishes he hadn’t -- because that glare manifested could very possibly scorch a body to dust, leaving only a small smear of ashes behind. If that -- it’s a very scorching glare. And Bruce would like to stay person-shaped, thank you very much.

(Ha. Ha .)

But it’s just that; a look.

Not action.

When had Bruce stopped expecting it to be action?

 Loki’s not saying anything, and so, testing his luck, Bruce ventures, “I mean -- I think it’d be more efficient, getting directions. You want to get out of here, right?”

Loki doesn’t verbally acknowledge that Bruce has made a good point, because he could never be that agreeable. Instead, he just abruptly stops walking and spins on his heel, marching firmly towards the side of the “street” and dragging Bruce with him. The stall he’s walking to seems chosen at random -- further confirming Bruce’s hypothesis that Loki has no idea what he’s doing.

The stall itself is fairly small, and wooden, and not very busy -- probably the reason it was chosen in the first place. It looks like it’s selling small bags and other similar assorted accessories, and maybe there’s medicine hidden somewhere, but Bruce doesn’t think so.

There is a woman with light orange skin manning what is probably the register. Her hair is tied up in some sort of twist on top of her head.  Her expression doesn’t change noticeably when they approach, but that could possibly just be how her face is -- slanted eyes a bit like a cat’s, and a straight-line slit of a mouth that rests a bit too low on her face for Bruce to feel entirely comfortable with it. Also: no nose.

But all in all, she could definitely be more alien-looking. Other than the color and the face, she could probably pass as human, anatomy-wise.

And now Bruce is getting off-track again.

“Hello,” Loki says to her, his voice saccharine-sweet, and again: she seems to understand him without trouble, nodding a greeting in return even though he’s speaking English , which is not a language from around here .

Bruce suspects magical shenanigans.

“Do you happen to know anyone who sells lysten blossoms?” Loki asks. He sounds like he’s forcing himself to bite out the words happen to know -- like admitting that gap in his knowledge physically pains him. He’s tense as a bowstring, and Bruce can see that, but Loki’s putting on a nice show for the woman behind the counter -- he goes up to lean casually against a wooden post as he speaks, raising one shoulder into a relaxed shrug. He looks very approachable, actually, when he’s like this.

Ha. Loki. Approachable .

With these acting skills (and that face) Loki’d probably do well in Hollywood. 

And now he’s got Bruce doubting every interaction they’ve had thus far. If Loki can pretend this well when he’s this frazzled --

Bruce forces that questioning part of his mind to shush .

He can’t deal with this right now. He needs to focus on the present moment.

Instead of speaking, the woman begins making gestures with her hands in some form of sign-language. 

Bruce’s stomach sinks. 

Because: what now?

He doesn’t know how he’ll convince Loki to try another stall -- as much as he hates to admit it, even Bruce knows that flitting from shop to shop asking the same question over and over is not a good look for two people trying not to be marked as “lost”.

(Whatever that means. He’s still not quite certain)

He’s dragged away from his spiraling upon hearing Loki say, “Thank you, dear lady.”

As though even the hand gestures he has understood.

(Bruce definitely suspects magical shenanigans)

Loki proceeds to summon several coins into his palm. To Bruce’s eyes, they seem to appear from nowhere, but he knows that they are logically probably from the same place Loki had conjured those chairs from back at the palace. Still positively oozing that oily charm, Loki adds, “I’d like one of your bags -- yes, please, that small one, up there, with the little bits of orange --” 

Bruce looks at the bag in question as the lady, obediently, moves to take it down from the hook it was hanging on. It had been tucked away in a corner, almost hidden behind the others -- barely visible.

And --

Well.

For good reason.

That bag is damned ugly , Bruce thinks but does not say. He never would have pegged Loki as the kind of dude to go for something bright green with carrot-colored ruffles, but, hey, Bruce isn’t judging.

Well. He is .

But not enough that he’s going to say anything to the guy who (need he forget) is very capable of some pretty horrific things -- things Bruce is only about 80% sure he probably won’t do anymore. But probably isn’t absolutely , and Bruce knows that, so he’s going to save any leeway he has with Loki for something more important, thank you very much.

He’s feeling pretty confident in this decision…all the way until the moment when Loki turns to him and offers the newly-purchased monstrosity to Bruce .

“A gift,” Loki says, brightly. The brightness is still a lie -- Loki is far from happy -- but Bruce thinks that maybe it’s a little less of a lie, now. 

Because Loki is an asshole .

Bruce simply stares.

“ Take it ,” Loki says through his teeth, darting a quick glance back at the shopkeeper, who is watching them, and Bruce finally does so, reluctantly slinging the strap over his arm. Not his shoulder. That feels like too much of a commitment, too much of a choice. He feels the hot flush of embarrassment work its way up the back of his neck, which he ruthlessly shoves down.

And he is not in High School anymore, getting teased over his poor fashion choices and poorer social skills. He is a full-grown adult on an alien planet , and an ugly bag is the least of his worries.

Still: Bruce’d been wondering why, out of all the placating-almost-bribery purchases Loki could have made at this particular shop, Loki had chosen to make this one -- especially because Loki’s proven decisively that he doesn’t have a need for bags.

And, well.

This explains that.

_

They’re moving again.

But it’s slightly slower -- brisk walking instead of speeding -- and Loki’s actually (presumably) following some sort of directions this time, so Bruce is going to take it. With any luck, they’ll find the (lysten blossoms?) soon, and then get out of here. And then back to the Grandmaster’s palace, which is honestly probably worse, but at this point Bruce just wants this little adventure to be over and done with.

Then, abruptly, Loki slows to a stop. Bruce stumbles to follow suit.

Loki’s staring at something. He catches himself, after a moment, and looks away, but it’s too late -- Bruce has already noticed the subject of his attention.

There, in front of them -- perhaps five yards away -- is a metal stall that looks clearly cobbled together (given away by different colored materials and pieces that just don’t quite fit ), and yet it is also clearly well-kept. Humble, but proud of itself. But Bruce is nearly completely certain the understated neatness of this vendor’s stall isn’t what has caught Loki’s eye.

No. He’s pretty sure it’s the aliens behind the stall that had Loki coming to such a sudden halt. There are three of them, standing maybe five feet higher than the average human, which is strange, sure, but not in this place. Besides, it shouldn’t be that strange to Loki , and so Bruce doesn’t think it’s their height that’s the defining factor, either.

No.

The aliens are blue .

They are a dark blue, the color of an evening sky or of a frozen ocean. The ocean description is probably more apt, because they also have little ridges up and down their body and across their faces; little white whirls and lines engraved into their skin. They don’t have hair. Their eyes are red.

And Bruce shouldn’t have seen them before -- he hasn’t met a naturally blue alien yet, or at least he thought he hadn’t -- and yet he has . He knows them. He’s seen them before.

He’d seen them in Loki, back when Loki was drugged up and sick and Bruce had half-thought the color just another symptom of the fucked-up disease that was the Grandmaster’s whims.

But these aliens don’t look sick. 

They aren’t acting sick.

Much the opposite, in fact -- as Bruce watches, a smaller one runs up behind the stall and begins chattering excitedly to one of the aliens who must be their parent, tugging on the parent’s hand and pointing to something in the distance. The parent shakes their head but smiles indulgently, and the child pouts and crosses their arms.

Bruce has seen enough children to know where this is going. Children are children everywhere, regardless of species.

The parent says something. The child scowls. They stomp their foot.

The parent laughs, says something else, and the pout abruptly disappears. The chatter resumes, this time about something that has the child gesticulating wildly.

Bruce looks over at his companion.

Loki is frozen in place.

And then he isn’t. Then he’s walking again, only it’s not quite as purposeful anymore. It’s like he no longer knows where he’s going.

“How far did that --” is woman the correct word? Bruce actually isn’t sure. “Other person say we had to go?”

“Oh, poor thing,” Loki says. There is no real emotion behind the word. It is a barb for the sake of a barb, not because Loki really cares about saying it. Bruce has the sneaking suspicion Loki’s not really focusing on Bruce (or on their quest/journey/whateverthehell) at all at the moment. “Are you tired already?”

“No,” Bruce says. And then, because he’s feeling daring -- and because he really can’t imagine Loki doing anything too awful to him, as strange and inexplicable as that is -- he adds, “That wasn’t an answer.”

A pause. They’re still walking -- they’ve walked past the stall with the blue aliens, although if Bruce strains his ears, he thinks he can still hear the child’s unrestrained giggles -- but their pace has slowed even further now.

Finally, Loki says -- with such confidence it’s as though he never hesitated at all -- “We cannot trust her. She had misled us; she wants us dead.”

“ What ?” 

How could Loki possibly know that? Bruce hadn’t noticed an attempt on his life, and he feels like those kinds of things tend to be pretty noticeable.

“Yes,” Loki says, viciously satisfied. He’s probably thrilled at the chance to throw Bruce’s “naivety” back into his face. “Yes, little mortal fool. She has sent us to monsters, to murderers. They have no lysten blossoms, I assure you -- no tinctures, no medicines. She has sent us to savages. They will sooner rip out our hearts and feast on them than give us anything that might be of use.”

It’s a very pretty speech.

And yet…

“Monsters,” says Bruce, flatly.

He makes a show of looking around. From his perspective, everyone here could be a monster -- they all look strange enough. And yet here they go about their business, regardless of horns or tails or blobby exterior, much like ordinary civilians. Bruce doesn’t know how one would make the distinction of monster when anyone here could be classified as one.

(Bruce included.)

“Yes. Beasts,” Loki says. “She must have thought me as foolish as you -- likely she saw your little wide-eyed expression and thought we both must be so stupid. But even the dullest Asgardian child knows better than that. We shall find somewhere else to get the blossoms.”

Somewhere else .

Where?

“Where are these…” The word makes him uncomfortable, but it’s not like any of these aliens will understand Bruce , anyway. It’s Loki they’re probably getting offended by, if anyone -- it’s Loki who they can actually comprehend. “Monsters?”

“Worry not,” Loki says, condescending to look over at Bruce, and his face screams superiority , but his eyes scream something else. Bruce can’t quite read it -- fear? Disgust? Anger? “The danger has passed. You may thank me.”

A day ago, Bruce would have said thank you , would have done his best to keep the tentative peace between himself and Loki as stable as possible.

He doesn’t now.

“You think of us Midgardians as little more than beasts, too,” Bruce says. “Don’t you? And yet we’re a lot more advanced than you give us credit for. Maybe these ‘monsters’ do have a thing that can help us.”

“Oh, I assure you,” Loki says, “Frost giants are far more bestial than even the most feral of Midgardians. Even Thor would tell you so, and he has some inexplicable fondness for you vacuous little ants.”

Ouch.

But Bruce’s mind has gotten stuck on something else that Loki has said.

Frost giants .

Maybe he’s wrong, but fairly tall aliens could probably be considered “giants”. And blue is a pretty frosty color.

Bruce doesn’t think he’s wrong.

And if he’s not wrong…

( -- Loki is lying on the ground, and there is a dark color spreading up his fingertips and creeping across his chest, and even in the shadows Bruce can see that he is no longer pale and Asgardian-looking)

(Loki who had said: I will craft an illusion over the Grandmaster --)

( So that he looks like me .)

(Loki could probably make himself look like…well, him…also)

(But why? Why?)

( Monsters )

(Bruce thinks he knows)

Loki is still talking, going on and on with that pure venom in his voice, and he is saying things like “medicine is beyond them” and “any Asgardian would gladly slay such a beast and spike its head on the wall as a trophy”, and Bruce thinks back to the little child from the stall chattering at their parent and he feels sick .

He had known Loki was messed up. He’d known Loki was racist already, just based on the way he talked about humans, and past that (although it keeps slipping further and further from Bruce’s mind) the casual way he’d killed them back in New York, as though it required little more thought than the thought required to slaughter an animal -- less thought, even.

But this…

This is a whole other level.

Especially because it seems to be a cultural thing, not just a Loki thing.

Loki could be lying, of course. But Bruce doesn’t think so. The things he’s saying seem pretty well-worn, like he’s said them a million times before, or heard them so often they’ve managed to imprint themselves into his mind. 

There is something green in Bruce’s vision. His voice is very tight as he interrupts. 

“You know, call me squeamish or weak or whatever, but I don’t particularly care to hear anything described as ‘less than’. Call it a quirk. Almost everything bad that’s happened on Earth has been a result of someone believing something like that about someone else, and hey, in almost all cases, that’s been pretty unfounded.”

“You are weak,” says Loki derisively, but at least he’s stopped listing all the reasons the ‘Frost Giants’ deserve to be fucking massacred . “You are weak and obtuse, and so is your planet, and its ‘quirks’ do not apply here.”

“Yes, well,” Bruce says. “Indulge me.”

( This is Loki this is Loki this is fucking LOKI what are you doing -- )

(This is Loki. It’s Loki, yes, and he’s looking strangely vulnerable, curiously cracked-open -- beyond the ugly words coming out of his mouth. His face is saying something else. His face is not saying I hate Frost Giants . His face is saying, I hate --)

(But no. That isn’t possible. Bruce has to be reading this wrong.)

(This is Loki , after all.)

Loki does not reply.

And Bruce thinks: it would be so much easier to let this be. To keep walking. It would be so much easier , and Bruce would have a much lesser chance of coming to bodily harm in the next few moments. Really, honestly, where have his survival instincts gone? They certainly aren’t here now .

But also, well.

The Green Guy isn’t going to let Bruce die.

(Bruce knows that personally)

So instead Bruce takes a breath, and looks at Loki, and asks, with more confidence than he feels: “Are the Frost Giants you’re talking about those tall blue ones back there?”

“Yes,” Loki hisses viciously, thoughtlessly -- but he’s still staring off at nothing, and his face is still damnably open . 

“Huh,” Bruce says. And then: “But I saw you.”

A beat.

“What?” Loki says flatly, like he doesn’t know what Bruce means, but Bruce knows he does. He no longer doubts himself on this.

“I saw you,” Bruce says again. He hesitates, then pushes through. “I saw you, and you looked like them.”

Chapter Text

“I knew you Midgardians were rather underdeveloped, if you will, due to your minuscule lifespans,” Loki says. “I never knew you were delusional, too. That will be an interesting addition to the Asgardian textbooks. Something new to teach the children, so they need not bother with learning anything further of your species.”

But his eyes are blown just a tad wider than normal, and he’s tensed up again -- which could mean nothing, because he’s been pretty constantly tense since they entered the market, but Bruce knows it’s not unimportant. Loki knows what he’s talking about. Bruce isn’t delusional, but Loki is the God of Lies.

“Don’t,” Bruce says, “That isn’t going to work.”

Loki has knives, probably. He has magic. He could use either of those things to shut Bruce up quickly and efficiently. 

He does not.

His hands have balled up and he looks like he dearly wants to hit Bruce, but he doesn’t . It’s a measure of restraint Bruce would never have predicted someone as batshit-crazy as Loki capable of. 

Well. As batshit-crazy as he had appeared in New York, anyway.

Loki laughs at him, his whole face breaking into a picture of mirth, and Bruce wonders how he ever fell for it, considering how blatantly false that laughter rings. “Oh, a threat, now? How quaint. Sweet, even. A little kitten biting at the heel.”

“Not a threat,” Bruce says.

Patience , he reminds himself.

He’s doing this for a reason. Getting upset wouldn’t help anything even if he didn’t have Hulk to make any anger on Bruce’s part utterly catastrophic.

It’s this, of all statements, that finally makes Loki’s forced amusement snap.

“What did he tell you,” he hisses, gesticulating at no one in particular, and at first it isn’t clear to Bruce who the “he” Loki is referring to is . The Grandmaster?

A second later, realisation hits.

Thor .

“Only that you were adopted,” Bruce says, and doesn’t expect the ugly expression that flashes across Loki’s face at the words, something jagged and raw.

“He would not claim me,” Loki says harshly. “He would ensure the disgrace of it was flaunted before all of your eyes -- only a secret when it benefits them , an open mockery when it doesn’t --”

“Hey,” Bruce interrupts.

He doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t like this.

“Literally right before he told us about the adoption, he called you his brother, so whatever idea you’ve got here, it’s the wrong one.” Then he pauses. “Also, what do you mean secret ?”

“He did not say?” Loki is laughing again. It’s that bitter laughter, the laughter that Bruce hates , the laughter that reminds him exactly who Loki is and what he’s capable of. “He did not tell you? Of course not. Nothing that would sully golden Asgard or its golden king.”

“He just said you were adopted. I said that,” Bruce says. “I saw you turn blue back when you were out of it with that drug of the Grandmaster’s, a completely separate occasion.”

There. He’s said it.

No going back now.

“You --” Loki’s laughter turns furious, turns incredulous. “You, you righteous Avenger -- you would take advantage of someone who cannot defend themself, you would --”

Is that hurt ? 

Loki seems almost wounded, and by what? What had he expected from Bruce? Bruce is not his friend, but even if he was , he hadn’t done anything except use his eyes. Did Loki expect him to become selectively blind?

“It’s a little hard to ignore when someone just turns blue in front of you,” Bruce finally bites out.

“I did not turn blue,” Loki denies immediately. “We’ve established this.”

They have not, in fact, established this.

In fact, Loki had as good as confirmed it just a few sentences before.

(Why. Why does Bruce have to deal with this)

(...because he’s the only one here)

(and because he’s not indifferent)

(he can’t just…not care. That’s not how it works.)

“I saw you,” Bruce says.

“We are not having this conversation.”

“We are .”

“We are not having this conversation in the middle of the market,” Loki amends, still snarly, but at least it’s something . Almost a concession.

“Fine,” Bruce says. “But you need those lysten blossoms, and the closest and easiest way to get them is that stall, with the so-called monsters. So before we leave, we need to get some of those so we can fix you and go through with your plan. You don’t want to be at a disadvantage, right?”

Since when is Bruce the one in charge of this scenario?

…since when is Loki letting him be the one in charge?

But Loki seems almost relieved at the instruction, even as he argues back, “No -- I have already said, lest it slip through the membrane your thin little skull, that they are dangerous to us. We will not be interacting with them.”

“I thought you said nobody in this market could hurt you, given the fact that you’re an invincible Asgardian or whatever.”

But is even that simple fact -- that Loki is Asgardian -- true?

Bruce is starting to doubt it.

Bruce is starting to doubt a lot of things.

Loki hisses, low, through his teeth, but doesn’t say anything further. He’s aware he’s been caught out.

To be fair, Bruce had called that particular lie from the start.

“I’m going,” Bruce says. “Give me some Sakaaran money and I’ll go.”

“They will kill you.”

Bruce will admit that the statement, said with such stark certainty, sends a swoop of fear into his stomach. But reason wins out.

“They won’t just murder me for no reason in the middle of the street. They’ll get arrested.”

He hopes. He hopes Sakaar has basic laws like that.

Loki smiles nastily. “It’s not murder if it’s just an itsy-bitsy Midgardian. You are food here. They will get in as much trouble as one of you mortals would upon slaughtering a pig.”

Bruce prays fervently that Loki’s lying about that (which: chances are, but there’s also the non-zero possibility he’s not , because: alien planet and all) as he says, “I’m going,” once more, and holds out his palm for the money.

Loki stares at him for a long moment.

Finally, he manifests several more coins into his hand, and, slowly, drops the currency into Bruce’s.

(the fuck , the actual fuck, Loki’s listening --)

(Bruce is giving orders and Loki is listening , what has the Earth come to --)

(well, it might have something to do with the fact that they’re not on Earth)

(which is just a wild statement all on its own.)

Bruce takes the money as calmly as possible and tries to act like his worldview isn’t warping even more than it already was.

And so -- with a confident stride he doesn’t feel -- he turns around and heads back in the direction of the stall with the blue aliens.

He will admit, only to himself, that he is a little bit afraid. They do look almost monstrous -- red eyes are the marker of every fairy-tale villain, and Bruce really doesn’t know anything about them, and it had been Loki , an actual serial murderer himself, who had spoken of them as “dangerous” and “beastly”. That isn’t something he’s entirely able to ignore and there is a rather large part of him that wants to turn back -- that wants to leave this sleeping bear where it lies instead of poking it aggressively in the eye with a stick.

But that would only prove Loki right, and so Bruce keeps walking.

The littler frost giant has disappeared somewhere, he notices as he gets closer, although rationally the little one probably hasn’t gone far. Bruce decisively doesn’t think about how much more threatening the giant blue alien manning the stall is without a child to soften its appearance.

Its . No, that’s wrong -- dehumanizing. Exactly what Loki had been doing a few moments ago.

Bruce shakes himself mentally.

He can do this.

He can .

A few more yards. He weaves through the street with his head down and tries to act like he belongs. Somehow, being with Loki had made things feel safer, even though logically it should have been the opposite.

A yard or so left to go.

The ‘frost giant’ is lounging against the countertop, looking for all the world like a bored salesperson, and that familiar pose is enough to push Bruce into trying out a greeting.

“Hello,” he says. Swallows.

The frost giant grows more alert, but doesn’t answer him, instead tilting their head in a manner that screams confused . They say something back at him that is Not In English.

Oh. Fuck .

The whole language thing.

And Bruce doesn’t have Loki to translate.

Lovely.

“Umm…” He assumes American Sign Language isn’t universal, either, although what little he does know probably wouldn’t help him even if it were. He looks up at the stall’s wares -- lots of little bags of herbs, lots of potted plants, lots of things that look like tinctures, lots of colored liquids in glass-like bottles -- and while they have labels, those labels are also , not shockingly, in a different language. No convenient “lysten blossoms” jar he can just point to and be done with it.

The frost giant says something else.

Fuck it.

“Lys-ten blossoms,” Bruce enunciates slowly, hoping that maybe some benevolent force will smile down on him just this once and that, somehow, the words will sound the same in both languages.

They don’t. Clearly, based on the even larger head-tilt.

Well, Bruce has never had much luck with benevolent forces, anyway, he thinks somewhat bitterly. If he did, he wouldn’t be where he is now.

The frost giant taps the countertop impatiently and Bruce tries to think of another strategy. He’s about to resort to charades when --

“Two tins of lysten blossom tea,” says a voice behind him, clipped, followed by someone snatching the coins from Bruce in one quick motion he barely even registers before it’s already over. A pale hand slams the coins onto the counter with more force than strictly necessary. “Quickly!”

It’s the first time, Bruce realizes with a sort of dazed confusion, that Loki has been outright rude since he got here.

He’s been mean, sure. Catty, even. But he hasn’t been rude the way he is now -- glaring down the helpless shopkeeeper, who -- well. Probably isn’t helpless, and is glaring right back with equal vigor even as they root around under the counter for the tins. Presumably they’re a bit miffed at the shortness of the address. Bruce would be too.

If they’re so dangerous and murderous and all that , Bruce can’t help but think. Wouldn’t it probably be better not to antagonize them ?

But he doesn’t actually believe in the whole “murderous” descriptor. And also Loki’s actually doing the thing . So he will say absolutely nothing, thank you very much, that could jeapordize that.

“Set them down on the counter,” Loki orders next, when the shopkeeper attempts to shove them into his hand.

The shopkeeper does so, looking even more irritated than before, and Loki snatches the tins up and grabs Bruce’s arm roughly and snaps, “We’re going back. Now .”

Well, Bruce isn’t about to argue.

_

They get back to the palace without incident.

Bruce honestly hadn’t expected that. He’d expected something or someone to stop them, just because the universe appears to have made some grand joke out of his life recently, and an inconvenient obstacle would fall exactly in line with that. 

Of course, that luck can’t possibly last.

They’re traversing the hallway that leads to Loki room when they’re suddenly cut off by Scrapper 142, who has clearly been waiting to ambush them, judging by her location and also by the way she is blocking the doorway, fuck .

So much for no inconvenient obstacles.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce tells her, and he genuinely means it, because she did help them earlier but this is not the time . Loki moves past Bruce to bodily shove her out of the way, but she doesn’t so much as budge in response to what looks like a rather uncompromising push.

Fuck .

Bruce had known she was strong, but this is Loki . 

Loki, who had gone toe-to-toe with Captain America. With Steve. With a supersoldier. Who had gone toe-to-toe with Thor .

Scrapper 142 just crosses her arms and glares at them both. “Excuse me.”

“ Leave ,” Loki snarls.

“Hey,” Scrapper 142 shoots back, exaggeratedly offended. “I just want to talk.”

“I don’t like to talk,” Loki says, but he doesn’t try to move her again. His polite, passive-aggressive veneer has vanished now: instead he is full-on aggressive, looking seconds away from pushing her again, and probably only restraining himself due to the knowledge that it won’t work and would only serve to make him look foolish.

“Well, I do ,” says Scrapper 142. “And I think you’ll want to hear what I have to --”

But before she can finish her sentence, she lets out a pained grunt and flinches backwards, her back slamming into the door and her left hand simultaneously coming up to clutch her side.

Bruce’s eyes dart to the part of her torso that her hand is pressed against and -- oh. 

There is a very small knife lodged there. There is an equally small trickle of blood bubbling from the newly-created slit in her leather garments. The blue fabric is turning dark purple.

“You fucker ,” Scrapper 142 says, hissing the words through her teeth, but she doesn’t sound shocked. In fact, she just sounds vaguely annoyed, which is the only reason Bruce isn’t freaking out and running, because he’d thought Loki was past this -- he doesn’t know why , but at some point he had decided to separate “murderous invader Loki” and “unwilling roommate Loki” in his head. This incident is making it very hard for Bruce to keep that distinction up in his head.

It’s for this reason that, when Loki finally gets past Scrapper 142 in order to activate the strange silver scanning strip and unlock the door to their room, Bruce isn’t really thinking as well as he usually is. It’s for this reason that he doesn’t even attempt to argue when Loki snaps, “ Go ,” to him, as though he is an errant pet, and then spins on his heel and storms down the hallway once more and decidedly does not join Bruce in the room.

Bruce doesn’t know why he had expected he would .

Of course Loki wouldn’t keep his word.

“I told you he was a fucker,” says Scrapper 142 mildly, still clutching her bleeding side. She doesn’t seem overly concerned with her recently acquired knife-wound, and for that reason (and that reason alone), Bruce decides not to be, either, even though it is going against his every instinct as a medical professional.

But: alien planet.

The rules aren’t the same here.

She’s like Steve , he reminds himself, or Thor. Or even Loki. She heals faster, probably .

Still, he offers awkwardly, “Do you want me to, umm, help with that? Get you water, or disinfectant, or anything…?”

She shakes her head, a strange smile on her face. “No.”

She’s probably, he realizes, quite drunk.

“Okay, then,” he says. Because. Okay. “Sorry about that,” he adds, because somewhere along the way he started feeling semi-responsible for Loki. 

When did that happen?

He resolves firmly to try and get rid of that feeling. It will only hurt, in the long run, especially if Loki ends up doing something reprehensible, which he probably will , because he’s Loki.

“It’s fine,” she says, still smiling that strange smile. “I expected it.”

“Oh,” Bruce says.

A pause.

“Goodbye, then,” she says, slapping Bruce firmly on the shoulder as she makes her way past, with enough force it nearly sends him to the floor. And before Bruce can ask why she came, and what important thing she had to tell Loki, she’s gone again.

Bruce looks at the open door to Loki’s room, and then back down the hallway.

There’s no sign that Loki will be returning anytime soon.

Bruce is on his own, and so, sighing, he enters, shutting the door behind him to prevent any unwanted visitors.

He looks at that red, red bed, and then at his own sort-of nest across from it, and then at the silver twisting art thing in the corner that just keeps revolving without a single care for its surroundings or the events that just transpired.

He stifles the urge to scream.

_

It’s not fair, Bruce reflects, that Loki’s able to just run away from confrontation and Bruce isn’t able to do a thing about it. If this were Clint, or Steve, or Tony, and they were struggling with something, maybe Bruce would give them a chance to calm down and maybe he’d leave them be for a while, but that would be his choice to make based on the facts of the situation. He could always decide to go after them later. Sometimes talking it out would be the better option, but whoever it was would refuse to admit it, and so Bruce would have to force it, and usually whoever it was would come out the other side better for it. And maybe they’d be pissed at him for a while, but that’s fine, that’s worth it .

He hates that he doesn’t have that option here, with Loki. Because they’re on Sakaar and nothing is normal and Bruce can’t just go chase after him to who-knows-where on an alien planet. He wouldn’t even know where to start looking.

He hates it. The ineffectiveness gnaws at his gut and bubbles up to his chest and really, he realizes, what he’s feeling is uncomfortably close to guilt . He feels guilty .

He shouldn’t. It isn’t his fault. Loki isn’t his friend. He’s not Clint or Tony or Steve.

Bruce doesn’t even have a responsibility to deal with…whatever this is.

( monsters , but Loki is blue, but Asgard said beasts , and Loki is adopted --)

He doesn’t have that responsibility.

Even as he thinks this, though, he knows it’s too late for him to do anything but confront this.

He tells himself it’s tactical. He needs Loki to be stable (or at least as close to stable as the guy is capable of) if they want their plan to succeed.

That’s all.

This is necessary .

With that in mind, Bruce settles down at the table to wait.

Loki has to return eventually.

_

“I had to prepare the blossoms,” Loki announces shortly when he finally strides in. It is not a greeting and he isn’t looking at Bruce.

It’s been hours. Loki’s eyes are doing something wild but his hands are not, and they are perfectly steady and deliberate as they set a near-empty tin on the table in front of Bruce. “If you ingested anything odd last night, take whatever’s left. You can mix it with the hot water from the bathroom tap -- it’s fine to drink.”

Strangely considerate, even if it’s said in the most off-putting tone possible.

“Thank you,” Bruce says carefully.

Loki snorts another ugly laugh. “You would think it a favor, wouldn’t you?”

What is that supposed to mean?

The silence after that is awkward and heavy.

Bruce says, “I want to talk.”

Loki says, “I’m going to bed,” as though he hasn’t even heard. He marches past the table to the bed without hesitation.

“It’s not night,” Bruce says.

“Oh, yes, it is,” Loki shoots back, and ugh , Bruce hates that he has no way to tell if that’s true. There aren’t any windows. “I’m tired. I have no desire to exhaust myself further with your petty Midgardian complaints. If the tea tastes poorly, that isn’t my problem.”

It says something, Bruce decides, that Loki’s willing to admit that much. Willing to say he’s tired , like that admission is the lesser of two evils.

“Fine, then,” Bruce says. “You don’t have to talk. I’ll talk.”

Loki’s busying himself by pulling the blankets to and fro so that they’re placed just so, and arranging himself on the bed beneath them. His back is firmly to Bruce the entire time.

A minute or so of this goes by. Then Loki says, “I think you have forgotten your place here, little mortal ant.”

“No,” Bruce says, despite the stab of something in his stomach, the confusing mix of fear and anger and unease. “I don’t think I have.”

Loki is still not facing him. He’s fluffing a pillow with meticulous, single-minded concentration. It’s the way he’s so deliberately projecting I don’t care that lets Bruce know he does.

“Here’s what I know,” Bruce says, and watches Loki’s spine stiffen for a fraction of a millisecond. “When we were out in the market, you refused to go to a stall that had the medicine you needed, because you claimed the people selling it would kill us --”

“Are you just going to repeat what we both know happened?” Loki interrupts. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected extrapolative thought from so simple a creature.”

The Hulk does not like that, Bruce notes with a pained wince as something green surges in his head, but he’s able to push it down.

Loki is needling him intentionally, but he’s not hurting him. He’s not .

This prickly front is a sign that Bruce does not need to back off; he needs to keep pushing.

“Yes,” Bruce says with as much patience as he can muster, which still means a tinge of annoyance probably makes its way through his tone. But he will not let Loki win this easily, and so he continues without pause. “You claimed the people selling it would kill us, and as evidence for that, you claimed it was common knowledge on Asgard and that --” Bruce tries not to think too hard about what he’s saying, but the words still make him feel a bit nauseous as he goes on, “‘any Asgardian would gladly stick their heads on spikes’ or something to that effect. That is something you can’t argue, because we were both there.”

“Oh, I don’t argue that,” Loki says darkly as he fixes his pillow for what must be at least the sixth time.

And. Well. That’s disturbing for a number of reasons.

Bruce had been half-hoping Loki was exaggerating, even though he’d suspected he wasn’t.

“But the people selling it didn’t kill us,” Bruce says. 

Here Loki finally turns and flashes a smirk. “How would you know? The blue beast could have been grunting death threats the entire interaction, for all you know.”

“They weren’t,” Bruce says firmly.

Loki raises his eyebrows. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Bruce says, and continues even as he sees Loki open his mouth to respond, because he’s starting to realize that’s the only way he’s ever going to finish, for all Loki claimed he was exhausted and didn’t want to talk. “I do, which goes against what you were telling me. And it was also pretty hard to ignore that the Frost Giants were blue, and when you got drugged with that identity-whatever drug --”

“I didn’t take with any such drug,” Loki interrupts, again . “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, because the only person who would know that for certain is --”

And then he cuts himself off, because it seems he’s still unwilling to admit the implication of weakness in that regard, even to defend himself against weakness in another. And even as he notes this, Bruce notes the fact that Loki had changed the wording. Taken instead of drugged , implying choice , when Bruce is fairly sure there was no such thing involved that particular night.

Bruce takes Loki’s hesitance as an opportunity to keep going. “-- and when you got drugged, you turned blue --”

“I didn’t,” Loki interrupts yet again , and honestly, Bruce is starting to wonder how Thor made it through a centuries-long childhood without trying to strangle his little shit of a brother. Maybe he had. Probably he had, actually, because Loki is nearly Tony bad. He’s legitimately almost worst .

Bruce takes a moment to make a quick prayer that the two never meet, and after that he says a thank-you to the universe that Tony and Loki are currently on pretty antagonistic terms. He’s not sure his sanity could survive a team-up between them.

“You did,” he refutes as calmly as he is able. “You turned the exact same shade of blue, and you had the same markings on your skin. Furthermore, Thor told us -- The Avengers -- you were adopted. At the time we weren’t really thinking about it possibly being from another species , but, well. I guess that can be another bulletpoint in your list of reasons us Midgardians are narrow-minded. Whatever. I don’t care . What I do care about is what you being a Frost Giant means .”

Loki’s teeth are bared at him. His goddamn teeth . And his eyes are wild, and his hand is clutching that pillow so hard his knuckles have turned bone white.

He looked trapped.

He’s sitting on the bed and logic says he ought to be perfectly comfortable there, and logic says he can leave at any time, because no one is forcing him to stay put -- and yet he looks more trapped than he ever had back on the Helicarrier, when he was in a real cage.

“What I don’t understand,” Bruce says. He tries to get his thoughts together, but it isn’t quite working. His words come out jumbled, adjacent to but not quite exactly what he wants to say. “Is why you’re so convinced they’re murderous beasts, when you are one. And I can’t reconcile the fact that Thor, who absolutely fucking adores you, would, according to you, relish the deaths of these ‘frost giants’. I know Thor. That’s not him. He loves you. He was broken when he thought you’d died. And your parents --”

“Do not ,” Loki hisses. “Do not speak of them. Your ignorance betrays you.”

“Help me understand.”

“I owe you nothing ,” Loki says viciously. “You are a means to an end. You are beneath me. These questions are beneath me. I should strike you where you stand. I should take a knife to your skin and peel off strips of it and feed you them instead of those sandwiches I so graciously provided for you, that you clearly have no appreciation for, and I should toss you into the Arena and watch your opponent pummel your raw flayed flesh into the sand, and I should --”

“You should shut up,” Bruce says mildly.

Loki blinks at him.

“If Thor isn’t what I thought, you should be happy to tell me the truth. Go on -- get it out there. Tell me why he’s no hero and why you’re somehow in the right for all the awful, awful things you did.” Bruce’s mind flashes to New York. Decimated buildings and bodies buried in the rubble and hundreds dead and an army from the sky and the army wouldn’t stop coming and it wouldn’t stop coming and they were going to lose , they were overwhelmed and they were going to lose , because Loki’s strategy might have been shit but he had pure numbers on his side, and all of that that adds up to mean Bruce should hate the man in front of him now. He should hate him. He should hate him and he can’t , because he’s looking at Loki now and he looks so devestatingly young , and Bruce is no longer sure the story’s quite that simple.

There is no justification for what Loki did in New York.

But he hasn’t seen that  version of Loki since.

And Loki looks small. And Loki looks scared. And someone or something must have done something , because from what Thor’s said, Loki wasn’t always such an unholy mess of a person. So why then ? Why now?

And Loki is blue. And Loki won’t admit he’s blue. And Loki hates the other aliens who are also blue. 

And it’s all forming a picture, but Bruce is still missing several of the puzzle pieces needed to make that picture come together fully. So he waits.

Hopefully (if he has Loki’s personality pegged right) Loki won’t be able to resist some retort. And hopefully, if he’s very lucky, that retort will tell him something . Because Loki is never more open than when he’s bitter and he’s trying to bite.

Bruce is proven right when Loki drops the snarl in favor of another ugly, contrived smirk, and says, abrubtly, as though he meant to say it all along, “Of course, when he was sentencing me, Thor would not have mentioned the hypocrisy of the whole ordeal. It was only a crime because it was I who perpetuated it. Only condemnable when it’s Loki . If it had been Thor to invade your precious planet, the Allfather may have given him -- what do you call it? -- a slap on the wrist, but there would have been no true consequence. It would not be the first planet Prince Thor has invaded. It certainly would not have been Odin’s first. For all he likes to pretend the benevolent king, he certainly didn’t become come to rule the Nine Realms through diplomatic peace talks .” Loki scoffs.

Bruce stares.

“I don’t know about the Allfather,” he says, “But if Thor had invaded Earth, it certainly would have been a crime. Actually.”

Loki dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Not to anyone who mattered. Not to the galaxy at large.”

Ouch.

Also, while an interesting tidbit of information (and also pretty disturbing to think about too long) that whole rant failed to be relevant to the whole Loki is blue thing. It could have just been Loki trying to change the subject, which wouldn’t exactly be a shocker, but Bruce gets the feeling that it isn’t -- that somehow, in Loki’s head, the two things are connected, and it’s just that he’s failing to explain to Bruce how Point A is relevant to Point B. Probably that’s on purpose. Because: Loki.

Although, to be honest, that kind of evasion isn’t even a Loki-specific thing. It’s a pretty recognizable tactic, actually. Bruce has seen that coping mechanism before, associated with a variety of different faces, for a variety of different reasons.

And it means Bruce needs to start asking questions. But he doesn’t know the right questions to ask .

He gets the feeling that the whole Frost Giant thing is one of the driving forces behind Loki’s many, many issues, and he gets that maybe probably Asgard is actually super super racist and the Avengers hadn’t known about it. And he supposes that my country is racist isn’t something Thor would have introduced himself with, and maybe hadn’t even realized himself. And they’d never really talked about Asgard as a team, which -- now that Bruce is thinking about it -- why hadn’t they? It’s an alien planet and they should have asked everything about everything, but they hadn’t. Over time, they’d kind of stopped even thinking about the fact that Thor was an alien. Like, they knew it , but at the same time, it didn’t affect anything. They sort of treated him like they did Steve: an out-of-touch superpowered human, but still human , underneath it all.

But he isn’t. And what do they really know about Thor, actually?

But back to the main point. Back to the Frost Giants.

It just doesn’t make sense . In all of Thor’s accounts, Loki had been a normal annoying asshole for most of his life, and then suddenly he wasn’t. Suddenly he was invading planets and attacking towns and murdering people. So what? So Asgard was racist. Thor had loved Loki, and the King and Queen had clearly loved him enough to adopt him, and they should have raised him with the knowledge that the racism was wrong , and that they loved him anyway -- because Thor so clearly did -- and yeah, maybe it would still have caused some need for therapy, but Loki had seemed to be fine , from what Bruce has gathered from Thor’s stories. He’d been a part of the family and he’d called Thor brother , and then suddenly he claimed he wasn’t their family, and Thor wasn’t his brother, and out of the blue he was a fucking psycho and he was reigning death down on an innocent planet and honestly what the fuck is up with that?

Because abruptly, it seems, he wasn’t okay with being adopted, and saw his own species were monsters, and Bruce just doesn’t understand how Loki could have initially been so well-adjusted and at the same time still believe something like that.

And then suddenly it clicks .

Maybe. Probably. But there it is: another piece. Not all the pieces -- not by a long shot -- but a piece, singular, and it’s enough for Bruce to finally know what question to start with. It’s enough that he finally knows one of the right questions to ask.

“Loki,” he says, and watches as Loki tenses, watches as that pillow’s casing warps beneath alien-strength fingers. “Loki…did they tell you you were adopted?”

Loki doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

The way the pillow suddenly bursts, spewing the Sakaaran equivalent of feathers all over the room, is answer enough.

Chapter Text

So.

Okay, well, that certainly explains some things.

Bruce spares a moment to wonder what exactly Asgard’s King and Queen were thinking when waiting that long to tell their kid he was adopted, and also what the fuck they were thinking when they decided to let their other son (and Asgard as a whole) go on all that time painting Loki’s species as violent, mindless monsters to Loki himself. It’s just so utterly senseless that it takes him a moment to wrap his brain around it before he finally manages to force himself to return to the present moment and the current crisis. Manages to force himself back to Loki.

Loki, who is still here. He hasn’t left, which is unexpected, and he’s still holding his mangled pillow, but there’s no force behind it. His hands are limp. His right pointer finger and thumb are absently fiddling with some of the escaped stuffing -- which is not feathers, Bruce notices, but instead something synthetic and blue that somehow manages to be equally messy. Little gelatinous orbs leak from the deflating pillow and onto the bed, before rolling to the floor, where they bounce on their merry way to all corners of the room. 

He will deal with that later.

There is something much, much more important that he needs to deal with now . 

“On Earth,” Bruce says, “There are articles and shit written about how that sort of deception is not something you should try with your adopted kid, no matter how well-intentioned it might be. It can cause a whole host of issues. Do those books not exist on Asgard?”

“No,” Loki says, blankly. “Apparently not.”

It’s short. Brusque. But it’s an answer -- and a confirmation.

“I’m assuming they told you sometime before that whole incident in New Mexico when you trashed the town and tried to kill Thor?” Bruce guesses, with greater casualty than he feels, because adopted or not that’s an incredibly unstable and fucked up thing to do -- but he can’t let his personal thoughts be that obvious right now. He needs Loki to talk to him.

(Why? Why does he need Loki to talk to him?)

(This isn’t going to help them kill the Grandmaster. This isn’t going to help Bruce get home.)

( Why is he searching for answers, when that search is only making his end goal so much harder for him, because it risks setting Loki off?)

(He doesn’t know why.)

(That’s a lie. Yes, he does.)

“ Told me?” Loki says, abruptly, finally looking up from his pillow -- for the sole purpose of meeting Bruce’s eyes with his wild-looking ones and laughing right at his face. The laugh is that fake laugh, again, but Bruce doesn’t call him on it. “ Told me? Oh, you give them too much credit. They did not tell me. And it seems Thor didn’t tell you .”

“What didn’t Thor tell me?”

“Just a year before I invaded your planet,” Loki says, sneering, “Thor, in his infinite wisdom, decided to take it upon himself to attack the wasteland of a planet that I was stolen from. I went with him, of course, and during the attack, imagine my shock when one of the vicious monsters we faced grabbed my arm and it did not burn me -- their touch freezes, you see, even the toughest Asgardian flesh, and infects it with frostbite -- and instead, before my eyes, my skin began to creep with blue! How strange! An anomaly, I thought, I told myself, but even then I knew --” he’s speaking quickly now, words tripping out with such speed it’s as though he doesn’t want to think about what he’s saying, but like he still needs to get it out. Bruce wonders if he’s told anyone this before. Loki doesn’t seem to have many friends to tell -- and isn’t it sad, isn’t it sad that Bruce is probably the closest thing to one he has ? “I knew I was different, I knew -- and all Asgard did too, even if they didn’t speak it to my face. I was always Odin’s strange second-born son, only I wasn’t his son at all, was I? And so after the battle where Thor slew hundreds of my true brethren, I went into Asgard’s vaults. There was a relic there, you see. The Casket of Ancient Winters, taken by Odin centuries earlier, when he beat down Jotunheim for their transgressions against Midgard, and seized the Casket so that they might never have the strength to do so again. But as it turns out,” more laughter, high-pitched and frantic, “The Casket was not the only relic he took in that conquest. He also stole the offspring of one of the beasts, left squalling in their temple, and cast an illusion over its skin, and brought it home, and named it son. For when I touched the Casket, the same transformation occurred as when that frost giant had grabbed my arm in battle. My skin betrayed me, and I became one of them , and I --” He cuts himself off. Continues, “Not only one of them, but one of their royalty . Another trinket. Another hostage against their realm. The son of Laufey-King.”

Loki gets off the bed, now, and strides forward, so that he is standing just before Bruce. He smiles something sharp, a shard of razor-thin glass. “So you see? I was always destined to be -- as you say -- a villain. I was always meant to be the monster. After that, I just decided to embrace it.”

“Bullshit,” Bruce says. He enunciates it: makes sure the word rings clearly through the room. Because that’s what it is: bullshit .

Not Loki’s story. No; from the horror building in his gut, and from the ice in Loki’s eyes, he’s pretty sure the things Loki’s chosen to share so far are true.

But he’s still missing pieces. That is not the conclusion of thd story.

There’s more that needs to be said, even if Bruce doesn’t necessarily want to hear it.

“So what happened in New Mexico?” he challenges.

“Where?”

“The town on Earth you sent that big robot-thing to destroy. I saw the reports.”

“Oh,” Loki says, and smirks. “Well, a little while after that, Thor was banished. I decided to make sure he remained out of my way.”

“Why?” Bruce presses further.

“His return would have complicated things,” Loki says. The smirk has faded slightly. “I had plans I needed to see through that he would have disrupted.”

“What plans? Couldn’t you just have avoided him?”

“No,” Loki says. Then, tightly: “I was King at the time. With Thor’s return, my authority would have been called into question. The populace was already unhappy with the strange second son taking the throne, but with no other option, they were forced to accept it. With Thor’s presence as crown prince, that acceptance would have grown more…tenuous. And the time was already tenuous. We were on the brink of war , we could not have dissent within our ranks --” Loki cuts himself off, his breath quickened. He’s not looking at Bruce anymore, but neither is he avoiding looking at him. His eyes are off somewhere else, veiwing a different place and time, and Bruce is almost worried that he shouldn’t speak -- that his questions will interrupt Loki’s stupor, will make him remember himself, and when Loki remembers himself he twists his words and leaves out chunks of information and outright lies through misleading sentences and Bruce doesn’t want to deal with that. He doesn’t.

But Loki looks like he’s getting ahold of himself again, regardless of Bruce’s interference (or lack of), and also Bruce has something he wants to clarify. One shocking, out-of-the-blue peice of info he decisively does not remember anyone bringing up before ever (and by anyone he means Thor -- he’s starting to realize his teammate left out a shit-ton of context when describing Asgard and/or his brother. To be fair to Thor, that’s the Avengers’ fault, too. They’d never asked .)

(Why had they never asked?)

“You were King?” Bruce asks, and watches Loki blink once, twice. Watches Loki’s lips twitch into something, then stop. Loki twists his face to form that damned smirk before any natural expression can get through.

Bruce wishes he could somehow make Loki stop that . It’s so frustrating, especially when Bruce is trying his hardest to be genuine. 

“Yes,” Loki answers. “With Odin in the Odin-sleep and Thor banished, the burden of the throne fell to me.”

Burden . Ha.

This, from the guy who led an army in pursuit of a throne. From the guy who killed hundreds and demanded people kneel and, all things considered, seemed very, very interested in ruling.

But. Deep breaths. Breathe .

“Odin-sleep?” Bruce questions, doing his best to keep the tension from his voice.

“A…regenerative sleep,” Loki explains, surprisingly without further prompting. Bruce suspects that if he wants actual insight into Asgard or the politics of the Nine Realms or any magic-stuff, now is the time to ask, because Loki’s probably willing to talk about anything that helps him avoid having to confront the volatile stuff Bruce is poking at. Pity that Bruce can’t take advantage of that uncharacteristic openness, because he has to keep poking. “When an Aesir ruler is as old as Odin is, with as much power and responsibility, it is necessary to maintain strength and stability.” He graces Bruce with a disdainful look. “A species as short-lived as yours, of course, would not understand.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, and doesn’t chase down the insult, because he’s pretty sure that’s what Loki wants him to do. It makes sense, he supposes. A magic healing coma. Sure. “Does he choose when that happens?”

Loki shrugs vaguely. Bruce hears a faint click from somewhere behind him, but he doesn’t turn to look at what it is -- Loki is more important, present-moment.  “Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“Okay,” Bruce says again. He’s pretty sure he deserves some kind of award:
Bruce, For Managing not to Shout at Exeptionally Infuriating People. He supposes it’s good he has practice suppressing his larger, less savory emotions -- and also good it’s him in this position, and not, say, Thor.

He likes Thor, he really does, but something’s telling him Thor wouldn’t do well just listening during this kind of discussion.

He wonders if that’s why Loki hasn’t talked.

“You were King, and you had some plan, and if Thor came back he would’ve messed it up, right?”

“That’s right.” Loki is smiling again. The fake smile, Bruce is pretty sure, but it’s honestly hard to tell. Either way, he doesn’t like it. It’s sending a funny feeling down his spine. 

Bruce feels like he’s walking straight into a trap (but he can’t not ) as he presses, “What plan?”

“Why, to save Asgard, of course.” Loki raises a hand to his chest in mock offense. “We were at war . I would save Asgard with the least possible loss of Asgardian life. I would cast myself a hero.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow in cold suspicion. Perhaps he was acting heroically, but he doesn’t like the expression on Loki’s face. “Save Asgard how ?”

“Well, by killing the monsters, of course,” Loki says, and he’s grinning, but his grin is cracked , sharp, jagged . His grin is glass. His eyes are fractured bits of ice. “By slaying the Jotun beasts. We were at war. To save Asgard, I intended to kill them all.”

Loki’s expression is bright and sunny as he waits. He’s waiting. What for ? Bruce thinks distantly, but, oh , that feeling in his chest is surging, anger-disbelief-horror, and something/someone/something is surging with it.

And suddenly, the world is all-consuming green.

_

When Bruce comes into himself again, the room has been utterly wrecked.

The bed is what he sees first. It must have been bolted to the floor, because it’s still in the same place -- what’s left of it, anyway. Large chunks have been torn from the wooden frame and are now scattered around the room or (in one case) lodged precariously in the ceiling. That piece actually looks like it’s about to fall, and is in fact defying the laws of physics in order to continue dangling there. Bruce thinks that he should probably prod at it with something and make it fall on his terms, lest it tumble unexpectedly and hurt something. Someone.

(oh fuck oh fuck fuck shit fuck no -- )

There is a crater in the floor where the table was. The table itself lies in splinters, as does one of the chairs. The other chair is miraculously undamaged and has merely been turned over onto its side.

The closet is missing a door. Bits of fabric that must have once been clothing have also made their way around the room, an unintentional sort of strange confetti.

( fuck, fuck, fuck )

Finally, the silver artwork-thing is still spinning, looking just as shiny and perfectly infuriating as it had before. It doesn’t have so much as a dent to mar its tauntingly smooth surface. What is it made of? 

Loki is gone.

Bruce’s desperate, scanning eyes don’t detect any blood in any of the most obvious places. He forces himself to look at the crater -- there’s not a hint that it was a body that made it, no outline or anything, but aside from something so blindingly obvious, how would he really know? How would he know ?

He tries to tell himself that Loki had survived being pummeled last time. He’s Asgardian. He’s strong and he’s durable and he’s fine . And he hurts people, too. If Hulk did toss him around a bit, maybe he deserved it. Maybe it was karma for the moment he’d stabbed Scrapper 142 earlier.

But Bruce hadn’t meant to hurt him.

It would be one thing if he had. If it had been a necessity, if Loki had betrayed him, if he had to protect himself.

But Loki hadn’t.

He hadn’t.

Bruce’s stomach is swirling and he feels like he’s going to be sick. When the feeling doesn’t dissipate, he realizes: oh, he actually is going to be sick . He could try and drag himself over to the bathroom (the door has caved in a bit, but it doesn’t look as though Hulk was able to get inside, so the facilities are probably still functional) but that seems like a lot of effort, and anyway he isn’t sure if he’d make it in time. And also, he figures he’s probably already torn his and Loki’s tenuous alliance to shreds and this will not be the thing that ruins him. So he turns over onto his side and vomits right where he is, closing his eyes and feeling his heart pound against his chest, thump thump thump . The sick feeling doesn’t go away, but he thinks it’s more psychological, now.

His mouth tastes like bile.

( fuck, fuck, fuck -- how many times can he say that word before it captures the magnitude of what he’s feeling ?)

Why had he lost control?

He knows why. He remembers what it was that caused the Hulk to surge up beneath his skin like a tidal wave, too strong and unexpected for Bruce to push him down, to fight back.

At least it’s Bruce here now -- Bruce occupying the forefront of his own mind and skin once more.

At least another decade hasn’t passed.

(has it?)

No, it hasn’t. If it had, someone would have found him, or the Hulk would have figured out a way out of the room on his own. It can’t have been a decade.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t.

But --

Bruce knows what it was Loki said.

He forces himself to remember slowly. Too quickly and he might lose it again, might lose himself again. And he can’t. He won’t.

But Loki had pretty strongly alluded to fucking genocide .

Just that is enough for Bruce’s chest to give another lurch, but this time he’s prepared, and it isn’t difficult to push the Hulk back down, to smother him with deep breaths and clenched hands.

And yet. And yet .

Bruce -- the human part -- sort of feels like tearing something apart himself.

He wants to leave. He doesn’t know what he was thinking , trusting Loki. There had never been two Lokis. That had been a rosy little delusion of Bruce’s, created so that it would be easier to cope with the situation he’d found himself trapped in. There was only ever one Loki, and that Loki is responsible for destroying Puente Argentino, and trying to murder Thor, and unleashing an army on New York, and apparently trying to enact fucking genocide on an entire species.

His species.

Loki tried to kill off his own species .

War wasn’t an excuse. War was never an excuse and hadn’t Asgard started the war to begin with, hadn’t Thor started the war, so the Frost Giant planet was just trying to defend itself and Loki had tried to kill them all --

Loki is deceitful and Loki is insane and Loki is bloodthirsty and Loki is apparently also genocidal --

And Bruce needs to leave. He needs to leave right now.

But where would he go? Where would he go?

He feels like he wants to vomit again and his head is spinning and he can’t think, he can’t think and he needs to think, he has to.

This isn’t the first instance where Loki has said something awful or obscene.

He says things like this all the time. He’s threatening when he’s defensive -- Bruce knows this personally. Loki leaves things out all the time . He makes an effort to push people away, Bruce is pretty sure. What little progress Bruce has made is in spite of that self-destructive tendency.

It’s pretty hard for Bruce to imagine there’s anything that could justify this.

But the little possibility that there is …can he really discount it?

He’d promised to himself that he would listen. He’d wanted to know, and Loki had told him, and in response Bruce had lost control and destroyed the room. That’s his fault, regardless of however messed up Loki’s statement had been. Loki had expected Bruce to fail to listen -- Bruce has no illusions about what the prickliness was about, not anymore -- and Bruce had fallen right into that. Not only had he not listened, he’d turned into the same fucking monster that’d pummeled Loki into the floor of Stark Tower last time.

And he doesn’t know if his alter ego just did that same exact thing again.

He doesn’t know .

Good job , he thinks bitterly to himself. You really did awesome here.

He’ll have a fun time trying to get Loki to open up about anything ever again, after this.

And he needs him to. There’s still a shit ton he doesn’t know.

Good job. Just a really fucking fantastic job .

And to top it all off, he still doesn’t know where Loki is.

_

Bruce can’t stay here.

He can’t stay here, in this ruined room, a room that does nothing but remind him of what he is and what he’s done and why he can’t keep doing it.

So much for control.

So much for proving to Loki that he isn’t a mindless beast.

He can’t stay here, but neither is there anywhere he can go .

He wonders where Loki’s gone. He doesn’t have many places to run off to, either.

Wasn’t the whole point of enlisting in Bruce’s help because he couldn’t leave the Grandmaster -- not on his own? Wasn’t the whole point that he was trapped? Bruce can’t leave, but Loki’s in just as tight a spot as he is.

Bruce wonders if, when Loki comes back (and he is coming back, he is , because he’s fine he is fine he has to be fine) he’ll finally decide he’s grown tired of Bruce, and he’ll finally start to do all the things Bruce had expected when he’d first arrived -- the betrayal and torture and murder that hadn’t come, and hadn’t come, and that eventually Bruce had stopped expecting to come. Well, if Loki’s just been biding his time, here’s his shot. A golden opportunity. If he’d just barely been restraining himself -- well, Bruce has given him a pretty perfect excuse to restrain from that restraining. Or whatever.

Bruce doesn’t know what to do.

He wants to apologize, but at the same time he can’t imagine doing so, can’t imagine acting like he’s the one in the wrong after what Loki just revealed. There’s certain lines he won’t cross, and he’s pretty sure an apology for getting angry about genocide isn’t one of them. 

And yet. And yet .

Well. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Instead, Bruce busies himself with cleaning up both himself and the room.

First, he filches another tunic from Loki’s closet (again: he’s pretty sure his relationship with Loki can’t get any worse at this point. Also he’s naked -- his previous attire had been thoroughly shredded upon transformation, good riddance  -- and so he rationalizes that even Loki would probably deem the theft necessary. This new outfit is dark orange and looks equally ridiculous on him. Bruce is resigned.) 

After that, he does his best to gather all the various bits of wood torn free from the bed and table and consolidate them into one concise pile in the corner. He knocks down the bit that was stuck to the ceiling, jumping out of its way to avoid it as it falls unceremoniously, before carrying it over to its fellows. He collects the little scraps of scattered fabric and adds them, too.

There isn’t a broom, as far as Bruce is aware, so once that’s finished, there’s not much else he can do. He tries to think of something else to occupy the time.

As it turns out, he doesn’t get the chance.

There’s a knock at the outside door.

Hope rises into his chest -- hope, mixed with a healthy dose of trepidation and fear -- that is just as quickly doused when he realises it’s a female voice calling out a greeting, and not one of Loki’s faintly taunting “hello”s. It’s Scrapper 142.

Again .

He wonders if Loki was right to be suspicious of her. She’s made a point to make herself involved when she has no real reason to be. Maybe the drunkenness is a front.

(Then he remembers the way she’d downed those drinks at the party and decides to dismiss that particular theory, at least until he’s presented with further evidence.)

(That doesn’t mind she can’t still be lying)

“Hello?” she calls through the door. “Lackey?”

Bruce doesn’t respond.

“Loki?”

He holds his silence.

She lets out an annoyed sigh that’s just a little too loud to sound genuine. “Um…Bruce?”

He’s a bit surprised she remembers his name, considering he’d only told her once. He certainly doesn’t think he’d be great with names if he spent his days as inebriated as she does.

For some reason, that small detail of recognition is enough to prompt Bruce to finally answer. “Yes?”

“Is Loki there?”

What to you think , Bruce thinks, and then: If he was, and he deliberately wasn’t answering you, how do you think he’d respond if I said yes?

“No,” Bruce says.

He wonders if he’s lost the ability to express himself beyond monosyllables.

“I thought he’d be back by now.” She sounds mildly put out, and is that a hint of worry decorating her voice?

“He was. He’s gone again.”

“Wanna let me in?”

“Not particularly.” 

He still doesn’t trust her. Loki’s adamance that she is not their friend might be getting to him.

But, hey, wait. Shouldn’t her not being Loki’s friend make her a good candidate for Bruce? Isn’t that how it works, sort of -- the enemy of my enemy is my friend and whatnot? 

He and Loki probably aren’t friends anymore, after all. 

Then again, the Grandmaster also is most certainly not Loki’s friend, and Bruce isn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity to go make besties with that guy.

But this woman isn’t the Grandmaster.

But this woman works for the Grandmaster.

But whatever, fuck it, Bruce is screwed anyway. This can’t possibly get worse .

(it absolutely can)

“Fine. Come in.”

Not a second after that, the door’s swinging open and she’s striding in -- only to stop, her eyes widening comically, as she takes in the devastation that’s swept through the room. It rather looks like a small tornado has blown through, Bruce’s clean-up efforts bedamned.

“What happened?” she asks, succinctly.

Bruce just shakes his head.

Shockingly, she doesn’t press. She just steamrolls right into the next topic. Something tells Bruce she isn’t known for her tact.

“I want to help,” she says, blunt as anything. “Or. Sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of ?”

Bruce has lost the ability to be cautious, he thinks. He’s just kind of doing things at this point. 

Which. That’s great. That’s fine.

Bruce Banner: world champion of doing things .

(like give in to Hulk and wreck the room and maybe wreck Loki and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck --)

He’s fine.

“I mean like sort of .” She shrugs awkwardly. “Like. Not enough to jeopardize my position, but. I don’t know. He kind of lets me do whatever, you know, isn’t overly bothered by me.” Bruce doesn’t doubt who he is. Nor why he probably isn’t too concerned about what Scrapper 142 does -- even now, her eyes are just a little too hooded. She’s steady on her feet and her words are clear, but also she’s probably had a lot of practice operating like this, as it seems to be her default. So that doesn’t prove much.

A part of him wonders why.

The other part says: nope, no way, he has enough to deal with when it’s just Loki .

He doesn’t need another broken person on his plate. Bruce isn’t really the picture of stability, himself, and he’s been rapidly feeling less stable recently. He hasn’t even proven himself able to deal with the one. Case in point: the chaos surrounding them.

“Okay,” he says finally. “How do you want to help?”

And why?

“I can probably get you two a ship out. I have access codes. I’ll just tell you the ship to board and get you the codes and, I don’t know, I can probably make sure the hanger isn’t occupied, too, and then you guys just go on in and head out through one of the wormholes and make your way out from there. Then we all win: you guys get out, and I don’t have to deal with looking at Lackey’s swarmy face every day.”

“I thought you didn’t like him. Or me.”

“I don’t,” she says immediately. Then: “I don’t know. Guess it’s just not sitting right, for whatever reason. Grandmaster’s had a lot of favorites and he usually gets bored of them after a while, and Lackey seems like he’s on that path out. And I guess I don’t want him dead. He claims he’s Asgardian, a prince and everything, which is utter bullshit, but still. You know.”

Bruce does not, in fact, know.

This stinks of a trap.

He just doesn’t understand why she’d be trying to trap them, which makes a very small part of him think she’s genuine -- but that doesn’t make sense, either.

Does it even matter?

“Loki said he couldn’t leave. That the Grandmaster had a kind of…hold over him.” He doubts Loki would want him sharing this but also fuck Loki right now, Loki is not a good person and Bruce doesn’t know when he forgot --

(Loki had looked so vulnerable --)

(Bruce can’t think about this right now.)

“Oh, yeah. I know what he means,” she says. “I can help with that, too.”

And what else can Bruce say but: “Why?”

“Maybe I’m feeling benevolent. Gotta get in my good deed of the century and all.” Her casual tone is belied by the tension in her body. She’s desperately uncomfortable, trying to hide it, and Bruce doesn’t know why . Doesn’t understand why she’d willingly enter a situation that clearly has her on edge when there’s nothing in it for her.

“Well, I don’t know where Loki is right now, so.” Bruce shrugs his shoulders and casts his eyes about the room in search of something else to look at, some kind of distraction, but that’s only a reminder of the destruction that has been wrought. Which is even worse.

( fuck, fuck, fuck )

“When will he be back?” Scrapper 142 demands. “I can’t just wait here forever. I’ve got things to do. Places to be. People to serenade.”

Serenade . Yeah, right.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “He might not be.”

Suddenly, he wonders why he isn’t just taking this woman up on her offer without Loki. Why he isn’t trying to convince her to get just Bruce a ship, alone. 

And yeah, sure, maybe she wouldn’t go for that -- she seems to be trying to help Loki most of all, for some mind-boggling reason, considering he had stabbed her the last time they interacted -- but Bruce could at least try.

Sure, maybe she’s not trustworthy, but it’s not like Loki is any more trustworthy. It might feel like he is, just because they’ve sort of been in this whole shitshow together, but Bruce needs to keep reminding himself that he’s not . Not really. He’s the opposite, in fact: God of Lies, and even if Bruce doesn’t fully believe he is a god, the title and reputation had to have come from somewhere.

And yeah, Loki had claimed he could teleport him home, or whatever, but if Bruce could get to Asgard, couldn’t he just…but wait. He doesn’t know how to get to Asgard on his own. He doesn’t even know if they’d help him, because who knows if Thor’s there to vouch for Bruce, and the rest of Asgard is starting to sound less an less appealing.. He doesn’t even know if he could fly the ship there, because a Sakaaran ship probably doesn’t operate the same as a plane on Earth, and Bruce just barely has a handle on the latter.

The more he thinks it through, the more relieved he grows. No. He still needs Loki. Bruce wasn’t being unreasonable or gullible at all.

(but does Loki still need him ?)

(he’d needed Bruce originally to distract the Grandmaster, to damage him so that Loki could kill him, and get rid of the “hold” that Loki mentioned. But now, apparently, Scrapper 142 can fix that hold without Bruce. Supposedly. So what’s to stop Loki from ditching Bruce at the first opportunity -- or worse, deciding him a liability, and doing away with him altogether?)

(he doesn’t think he would. But then, he doesn’t really know Loki. He’s barely interacted with him on a basis that isn’t “enemies” -- it’s only been a few days, now, that they’ve been sort-of allies. Days , out of Loki’s lifespan of thousands of years.)

(but what else is Bruce supposed to do?)

Scrapper 142 is saying something. Bruce realizes abruptly that he hadn’t been listening to a word she said, and he tunes back in just as she’s finishing a sentence: “...happened here?”

“What?” Bruce says stupidly.

“Is he gone because of whatever happened here?” She swoops her arms out to encompass the room. “Because I must say, you’ve undergone some interesting renovations since my last visit.”

She’s still not really pushing -- still leaving what he wants to share up to him. Bruce finds himself absurdly grateful.

“Yeah,” he says.

She makes a face. Then: “Well, he’ll be back. I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“How do you know that?”

“I wouldn’t, if he were another person. Another person might have done something stupid instead.” She shrugs. “But he’s not stupid. He’s an asshole, but he isn’t stupid. He’ll be back.”

But she doesn’t know that. She can’t.

Loki isn’t stupid, but maybe Bruce managed to make him desperate enough to act in a stupid way. He wasn’t exactly on the top of his game when Bruce saw him last.

But Bruce truly wants to believe her. He nods.

“ However ,” she adds, and seems to shake herself a little. Her expression slides back into carelessness, almost as if she’d caught herself being too serious, too real , and needs to make up for it. To offset the mood even further, she walks forward and bops him on the chest, like one would a wayward puppy. Bruce blinks, too startled to even be offended. “ I shall not waste my time waiting for him to get his slimy butt back in here. So when he comes back, you just let him know what I said, yeah? And he can find me .”

And then she turns on her heel and leaves. Quickly, as though to outrun any pesky sincerity.

And Bruce is left to wait. Alone.

Again.

He’s been doing that a lot, lately.

(It gives him time to think. Time to think about what Loki had said and what it means and why he said it, and Bruce doesn’t want to think, but the universe seems to be giving him nothing but time for exactly that.)

(And so he thinks.)

(What else is he supposed to do?)

Chapter Text

Loki comes back.

Of course he does.

The door opens and in he strides, looking so perfectly put together that Bruce finds himself doing a double take, just because that level of “togetherness” doesn’t seem feasibly possible . It’s not that Loki’d been dishevelled in the past (except for that one night at the party) -- no, aside from that, he’s always been presentable. But he’d been the normal kind of presentable. His hair had been mostly tidy, but loosely curled and susceptible to real movement, probably a side effect of Loki not having access to whatever Asgardian product he’d utilized during the invasion. Bruce had honestly thought it was an improvement (Invasion Loki’s hair had been both stiff and so, so greasy) but clearly Loki hadn’t. Because somehow, in the intervening time before his reappearance, he’d found a place to re-style his hair back to all its New York glory. Which is certainly a choice , and not one Bruce is entirely fond of -- not only is the style ugly, but it’s also an unsettling reminder of that devastation of that era, and the sight of it puts Bruce instinctively on edge.

He forces himself to relax, because he’s pretty sure that reaction is one Loki is consciously trying to draw out of him. And he’ll be damned if he goes along with what Loki wants. Not now.

It isn’t just the hair that’s strange about Loki, either. Everything is just…off. Yes, he’s wearing the same clothes, but they’re just ever so slightly brighter, more vibrant. So is his skin -- again, while Loki hadn’t looked unhealthy before, he had had the characteristic dull pallor and eyebags of someone under a great deal of stress. Bruce knows the look personally.

Loki has none of that now.

His skin, while still pale, now looks pale in a manner that screams of model instead of agoraphobic teenager .

Bruce doesn’t trust this sudden glow-up one bit.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t deviate from his planned course of action. For the first time, he has a plan, and he’s sticking to it. Anyway, he’s already in place -- it’d be stupid to back out now. 

 It’s like this:

Bruce is seated. He is seated on the floor: cross-legged where the table used to be. His hands are resting comfortably in his lap, where they look less like a threat. He has wrangled a tight grip on the Hulk and has been practicing slow, deep breaths for so long he’s not sure he could break that pattern if he tried. Importantly, he is calm , and 98% certain he won’t lose control again, no matter what bullshit Loki tries to spew at him.

Which, that bullshit is apparently starting with his very appearance.

Bruce senses a headache incoming.

“Hey,” Bruce says to Loki, who is just standing there in the doorframe, chin lifted in superiority, looking like a fucking supermodel. Which, the longer Bruce thinks about it, just gets more and more strange .

Loki merely deigns to lift his eyebrow.

Then he walks out again, only to walk right back in -- only this time his appearance is back to the what Bruce has apparently deemed ‘normal’. The clothes are only the normal amount of vibrant. The slight eyebags are back. His hair is semi-wild and loose again.

Bruce had had a script, but he feels like he can’t just leave this particular thing unaddressed. “What’s up with the makeover?” he asks, sort of forgetting that Loki still hasn’t spoken a word. He doesn’t now, either -- just shoots Bruce something purely poisonous out of his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t like to be reminded he doesn’t actually look that fantastic in reality (although he certainly doesn’t look bad even when he’s at his worst, so Loki doesn’t really have much to be complaining about. In Bruce’s humble opinion. Genetics are unfair, because why do supervillains like Loki end up looking like that , while law-abiding citizens like Bruce end up entirely average?)

(although maybe Bruce isn’t the best person to use as an example for law abiding .)

(whatever.)

(his point stands.)

Ignoring Bruce, Loki begins to walk in a slow circle around the room, examining the damage. He eyes Bruce’s meager attempts at clean-up disdainfully, then eyes the dented bathroom door. He nudges the bolted bedframe with his boot, one of the few surviving adornments to the room.

Finally, he says, nastily: “ Well . You certainly made a good go at it. Pity your alternative self just isn’t quite enough to take on a god.”

It’s a laughably transparent attempt at riling Bruce up. Each word is needling, pointed, designed to induce anger.

The attempt falls short. Instead, it only succeeds in making Bruce think, exasperatedly, that he wishes Loki would for once hang out somewhere in the middle of the two extremes he likes to go for. You wouldn’t think that narcissism and blatant self-hatred could manage to coexist inside the same person, but clearly that’s not the case with Loki. He ping-pongs between the two faster than Bruce can keep track.

“I wasn’t trying to take anyone out,” Bruce refutes sharply.

Loki just snorts a laugh and gestures widely to the room at large. “The evidence rather suggests otherwise.”

“I got overwhelmed,” Bruce says. “When I do that, sometimes Hulk comes out. It wasn’t intentional, and for that…” it’s taken him a little while to be able to think of saying this to Loki and meaning it, but he manages it now, with something startlingly close to sincerity. “I’m sorry.”

Loki’d made the mistake of not having his back to Bruce, giving Bruce ample time to notice the way his eyes widen slightly in surprise.

Ha , Bruce thinks. Got you .

Bruce wonders when the last time was that Loki had been apologized to.

But then, he corrects himself, rearranging things in his mind. Even if it wasn’t that long ago, Loki probably wasn’t expecting Bruce to be the one to apologize. After all, Loki had been the one to confess to genocide.

To be fair to Loki, Bruce wasn’t really expecting that, either.

It had taken some thought and a lot of internal convincing to manage it.

“You’re sorry,” Loki repeats flatly. Then a beatific smile spreads across his face. “Apology not accepted.”

Fuck you, Loki , Bruce thinks internally, but externally he just shrugs his shoulders and says, “The apology stands, whether you accept that or not.”

Loki looks like he desperately wants to say not , and is only holding himself back out of awareness of just how childish that would sound. Instead, he laughs again and waves a dismissive hand at Bruce. “You Midgardians and your quaint ideas of forgiveness.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bruce says. Then, because they’ve wasted enough time: “So we still have some things to talk about.”

“Oh, no,” Loki gasps in mock-surprise. “I thought that conversation ended when you tried to kill me.”

“You’re fine,” Bruce retorts, ignoring the twist of something like guilt in his stomach. It’s slippery and insidious and unproductive, at this moment, and he can’t allow himself to linger on it. “I don’t see a scratch on you.” Which: speaking of, how ?

Bruce voices the question aloud.

“I suspected some such outburst would happen,” Loki says casually. “I left before it could.”

“I didn’t see you leave,” Bruce says, ignoring, again , that guilty twist. This time mixed with shame.

(because Loki had expected Bruce to lose it.)

(nobody trusts him to have a hold on himself, despite just how hard Bruce has worked to maintain and improve upon what delicate control he does have.)

(worse yet: this time, Loki was right .)

“Well, of course you didn’t,” Loki said. “You wouldn’t have let me leave, would you? Convinced somehow that you knew better . You wanted to talk, and so I talked, and of course when I did you didn’t listen. Instead you tried to murder me.”

“That wasn’t me,” Bruce says, but the excuse sounds weak even to his ears. The way Loki sneers hatefully says he agrees.

“I left early, before the questions got dangerous , and left a projection of myself behind. Fortunately, as hard as he might try, your green monster cannot injure an illusion.”

Huh. “But you’re the one still talking, just through the fake? It’s your words?”

“Yes.” Loki looks at him like he’s an idiot. It’s a familiar expression.

“That’s smart,” Bruce says, honestly, calmly . Calmly, calmly, calmly. He is so calm. He is the picture of tranquility. “I am not going release the Hulk again, but if it would make you more comfortable, we can continue the conversation that way.”

“The conversation is over,” Loki says flatly.

“No,” Bruce says. “It isn’t.”

There it is again: Loki’s patented I want to hit you look. But still: he doesn’t.

This only contributes to Bruce’s resolve to continue.

“Here is your opportunity to leave,” Bruce offers.

“How gracious of you,” Loki says. “And how adorable, to think you are in any position to determine what my ‘opportunities’ are.”

Tellingly, he does not leave.

He is biting and cutting and lashing out -- but he isn’t leaving . And there is something in his eyes. They aren’t as sharp as the rigidness of the rest of his body implies they ought to be, aren’t as cutting as his words.

Got you , Bruce thinks again, but this time it’s more grim. 

Might as well dive right in.

“How did you try and kill the Jotuns?”

Loki hesitates a fraction of a second, as if debating if he wants to tell Bruce the truth, before deciding that yes, he does -- and from the looks of his bared teeth, he’s going to do it in the worst way possible. To try and horrify Bruce away from asking more questions, maybe? Bruce isn’t exactly sure.

Because, for all Bruce’s bluffing, Loki could just choose not to talk. There’s nothing stopping him. It’s not as though Bruce is dragging the words from his lips. They’re not physical, tangible things he can steal.

And Loki has to know how bad his twisted honesty makes him sound.

Even if Bruce doesn’t trust Loki, it only makes tactical sense for Loki to try and convince him to -- and it’d been working, if Bruce is being honest with himself. He had been starting to trust Loki. Loki sharing information that makes him seem so blatantly evil makes no sense.

Which is one of the reasons Bruce is still pushing. Because it makes no sense, and Bruce is a scientist, and things not making sense is something he’s been trained to fix . To object to.

Loki isn’t exactly an experiment. He’s certainly volatile like one, but he isn’t. 

Nonetheless, the same principles more or less apply.

One of the first things you do with an experiment is to make a hypothesis.

Bruce is looking at Loki and thinking , and Loki’s teeth are bared gleaming and white and vicious as he snarls, “I opened the full force of the bifrost onto their icy, barren realm. Left unchecked, the power of it, of Asgard’s might, was too much for the weak shell of it to bear. It burrowed into the very surface of the planet. It destroyed cities and land and people. Women, children, too, I’m sure. Not that their women and children really count as such, do they? Perhaps they do not have children. Perhaps they eat their young.”

“Is that what Asgard claims?” 

“No,” Loki admits easily. “There probably were children, then. Oh well.”

Bruce is hoping and hoping through his nausea as he says, “Thor never mentioned you destroyed a planet.”

Another infinitesimal hesitation. Then: “Well, I didn’t. Not fully. Thor, noble hero he is, had a change of heart while exiled on Midgard. He returned just in time to prevent the very thing he would have endorsed just days before. He had turned soft and weak, you see, through even such a short interaction with such soft, weak creatures. Proof, I think, of his true failings.”

The rest of what Loki’s saying doesn’t really matter, not when the relief of hearing that single word -- failed -- makes Bruce feel weak enough that his knees probably would have crumpled beneath him if he weren’t sitting down. It’s part of why he’s sitting down, in fact: to hide that.

He thinks he’s done an admirable job of keeping his expression blank, so far, and instinctively he keeps doing it. Tries his best (and succeeds, he hopes) in not showing that relief, in not showing any other emotion, either.

And he keeps doing it. He’s not finished yet, not even close. But at the same time, he’s painfully aware that so far Loki hasn’t said anything that makes the whole “genocide” thing sound better, or even anything that implied that the claim might have been exaggerated. Although at the very least Loki hadn’t succeeded in wiping out his own species -- a low bar to aspire too, but still something .

“How did he stop you?”

Loki shrugs dismissively, looks to the side. “We fought. He won.”

The way he’s saying it with such deliberate boredom is what tells Bruce that the more elaborate answer isn’t boring at all.

“And there weren’t any consequences for you?” Bruce needles. “You had just tried to wipe out an entire planet, and they didn’t even throw you in prison for a while? And I know they didn’t throw you in prison for anything close to an appropriate amount of time, because just a year later you showed up and tried to destroy a different planet. Mine.” Try as he might, he can’t quite manage to make that last word come out neutrally. He just can’t.

“I didn’t try to destroy your planet,” Loki corrects lightly. “Just conquer it.”

He hates the way Loki says that: as though it doesn’t matter to him. As though this topic, as though that distinction, is an amusing distraction, but not one of any true importance. Destroy, conquer -- all grouped in the same category. All just parts and pieces of the grand game Loki likes to play with other peoples’ lives.

“New York would disagree,” Bruce says tightly. “It’s still rebuilding.”

Loki gasps dramatically. “Is your slowness my fault? And besides,” he adds before Bruce can react more fully, “That is just one city. My sources would have me believe that Midgard has, in fact, many cities to spare.”

Huh.

Bruce is angry and he feels a bit sick and now he feels confused , too. And his head hurts. It’s throbbing with that new, swirling confusion -- because it had been unanimously agreed by the Avengers and by SHIELD that Loki’s strategy had been awful , and that he clearly hadn’t had in mind the scope of what it would take to conquer the entirety of Earth, and yet…this says otherwise. Implies he knew more than makes sense.

But Bruce can’t get hung up on this right now.

Loki is trying to distract him and (Bruce is ashamed to admit) it’s nearly working.

“No prison time? They just let you leave after that, then? Or did you escape? Because Thor gave off the impression that he hadn’t seen you for a while by the time you showed up to do your whole thing on Earth.”

“I escaped,” Loki says immediately. “Of course I escaped. I’m me . I’m fantastic at that.”

That’s the end of it , Loki’s expression says, and so Bruce says, “How exactly did you escape?”

Loki’s expression tightens, then smooths out again. “Much like I did recently,” Loki says, dripping smugness. “I faked my death, made it all seem very tragic, made Thor cry, and then I flitted off to brighter pastures and more interesting planets.”

“How did you fake your death?”

Bruce gets the feeling that Loki wants him to keep asking these questions, even as he refuses to give straight answers, even as he deflects and throws up barriers made of cutting words and shields made up of taunting, terrible sentences. If he didn’t, he’d stop answering entirely. Or he’d lie.

Maybe he is lying.

Bruce doesn’t think so.

He’s avoiding, and he’s withholding, but he’s not outright lying. From Loki, who is the God of Lies , that probably means more than Bruce understands.

But he thinks he understands enough.

Loki says, “Thor and I had done battle on the Rainbow Bridge, the Bifrost. Thor struck Mjolnir to destroy it before, ah, before the Bifrost’s power could destroy Jotunheim, and I was tossed over the edge. I fell into space and they believed me dead. If I had not fallen, I assure you, the Allfather would not have let me off so lightly, despite the fact that when Thor went down to Jotunheim --”

“Yes, I know,” Bruce interrupts, and watches as Loki shakes his head strangely, once, twice, and keeps going without acknowledging a statement has been made. He clearly doesn’t want to give Bruce the chance to speak.

“-- when Thor went down to Jotunheim and slew hundreds, he was banished a grand couple of days to a planet where he was pampered, and treated kindly by the women, and returned after having no true trialing experience whatsoever aside from what I --”

“You’ve said this!” Bruce snaps, and hates himself for doing it when he sees Loki flinch, infinitesimally.

He has the Hulk under control. He does .

This anger belongs solely to Bruce.

Anger, and horror, and a strange sensation like his stomach is falling out, and like his heart is dropping down to fill the void left behind.

“You’ve said this,” he repeats, quieter. “I just want to clarify something before you go on.”

Loki tenses, then smiles and spreads his arms in a universal gesture of go ahead . 

“You faked your death by…falling into space?”

Loki bristles. Says, “Yes.”

“But how did you know ahead of time that you’d be tossed from the bridge?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce watches the silver spinning contraption in the corner do another revolution. It’s gleaming. It’s bright and pretty and he hates it more than he can understand. More than makes sense.

Loki, too, has glanced off to the side. His eyebrows are low and his mouth is a thin, narrow line. “Thor has never held good control of his temper.”

Another revolution. It’s catching the light and casting small, wavering bright spots upon the ground.

Bruce says, “But he was only able to break the Bifrost because he beat you . Your plan relied on him stopping you from destroying Jotunheim, then.”

That explanation would almost be a relief. Yes, Loki tried to commit genocide, but not really . He always intended to be stopped. It was a symbolic gesture. Still awful, still so incredibly awful, but maybe something Bruce could come to terms with, given time.

But he doesn’t think that’s the right explanation.

Mostly because it doesn’t explain everything.

And also because Loki immediately retorts, “No. I had full intentions of wiping out the monstrous inhabitants of that planet. Just because you mortals are weak -- no. My actions were necessary to save Asgard. They were necessary.”

No , Bruce wants to shout, and so instead he just screams somewhat incoherently within his head. No, they weren’t!

But maybe Loki needs to believe they were. And --

Oh, fuck .

(Because that would make things worse. That would make things so much worse.)

(If Loki can’t let go of the racist bullshit because it’s all that’s keeping what he did something justified and not an utter atrocity …if Loki needs to believe that to stay sane…and maybe he doesn’t, maybe he’s fully okay with it either way, because he’s a psychopath , but Bruce has been presented with less and less evidence of that, and if --)

(Hush.)

(Focus.)

(One fucked-up problem at a time is plenty.)

(And the current issue he’s dealing with is plenty fucked up on its own.)

“How did you know …” he hesitates, starts again, “How did you know that the death would be…fake?”

Because that doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense .

A fall into space is a fall into space, regardless of how intentional it might have been. And maybe Bruce would have been able to convince himself such a thing wouldn’t have the same consequences for Asgardians (or, well, frost giants) and probably they wouldn’t be exactly the same -- and yet the fall had been convincing enough that Asgard had believed him dead, so clearly such a fall wasn’t generally considered harmless. They had believed Loki dead.

Loki’s smiling his snarling smile and Bruce feels so, so cold.

“Perhaps,” he says carelessly, “Perhaps I saw a rift beneath me, a tear in space and time. I have always been more observant than Thor. I saw the rift, I saw an easy escape, and I took it. It is hardly my fault Thor failed to use his eyes or his brain and realize I was not truly dead. It is not my fault he failed to look for me.”

Loki’s so good at twisting things around that it takes Bruce a second to remember his initial point. He’s so focused on not losing it, on not letting Loki slip away from it, that when he finally does, it bursts from him all at once, like water from a broken pipe. Because he knows . He doesn’t know how he knows -- he doesn’t even know exactly what he knows -- but he knows, nonetheless. “No -- you said you were thrown off. So how could you have aimed for the wormhole?”

Loki shoots him a truly disparaging look, haughty and pitying all at once, something that says, oh, you poor fool . “It’s a space rift , dear beast. It wants everything. It is attractive . My aim did not need to be precise.”

“But how was it faking your death ,” Bruce asks, frustrated (but beneath that frustration is the horror, cold and choking), “When it wasn’t planned ?”

Loki’s smirk is empty. He starts, “Well, I --”

Stops.

Starts again, as though he’d never stopped at all. “Well, I didn’t fall immediately . I managed to grab hold of the end of a spear, and Thor held the other end, and he was just looking at me, pathetically, like he thought I was going to slip and die -- desperate, although I don’t quite get why he cared , when it was his fault, after all, when he had broken the bridge --”

Trying to force Loki to get to any point quickly, Bruce reflects, is like pulling teeth. From an alligator who doesn’t particularly want its teeth pulled, and is liable to snap down on your arm as you try.

(That’s not quite fair to Loki. He has yet to actually hurt Bruce.)

(Shockingly.)

(...perhaps not as shocking as it should be.)

“--and I thought, well , what if?” Loki glances up at the ceiling, as though addressing it instead of Bruce, but his eyes keep flitting to Bruce intermittently, betraying his indifferent facade.

“What if what , Loki?” Bruce asks, voice low.

“What if I did? Die in his eyes, that is. Not truly, not in reality. But what if I did?”

He isn’t being subtle. Not even close to it.

Bruce isn’t sure he’s even trying, at this point.

And Loki’s eyes are on the ceiling but they keep returning to Bruce, trying to gauge his reaction, trying to see if he understands -- perhaps hoping that he doesn’t just as much as he hopes that Bruce does, because he can’t quite seem to say it plainly himself, despite just how obvious it is to Bruce’s ears.

And maybe it’s only obvious to Bruce because Bruce is a little too familiar with what Loki is saying. Personally so. Achingly so.

Like recognizes like.

(A monster, meeting a monster.)

(Desperation, seeking out desperation in turn.)

And Bruce feels so, so cold. Cold and yet hot at the same time, blood pounding in his ears, his stomach churning sickeningly, and he’s glad he’s sitting down because if he wasn’t he’s scared he’d fall, scared that shaky sickness would give him away. As it is, he’s not sure how Loki is having this conversation standing -- and yet he’s succeeding, somehow, tall and stiff and proud, and his eyes are on the ceiling.

“You didn’t fake your death,” Bruce says flatly, and he makes it a statement and not a question, makes it so that Loki doesn’t have the option to say no . “You tried to die. For real.”

Of course, question or not, Loki responds with an aggressive, abrupt, “Ha!” His blue eyes are wild. He follows it up with, “No,” and then more laughter, strained and dark. He glances at Bruce and says, silkily, “I do believe you’re projecting several of your own mortal failings onto me. Not so objective, after all… hmm, Bruce?”

It’s almost enough to make Bruce doubt.

Except no, it isn’t at all, and Bruce is almost certain Loki isn’t even trying anymore. Not truly. He’s almost starting to question whether Loki’s truly been trying to avoid anything at all, or if he’s just been putting on a show of avoidance from the start, in order to maintain a semblance of dignity and reputation -- because Bruce has been seeing through far too many lies, he thinks, from the one called “liesmith”. He’s not that good. So his insight must have been permitted .

“That’s just what I’m hearing,” Bruce says. “If you have any other evidence to the contrary -- besides you saying it was fake -- feel free to share. I’m listening. That’s why I’m here. I’m just telling you what I’m hearing.”

“What you think you’re hearing,” Loki corrects viciously. He starts to pace, from one wall to the other and back again, before finally coming to a halt in front of Bruce. His arms are crossed in front of his chest in a way that’s probably meant to be intimidating, but Bruce can’t help but read as defensive. 

“Sure,” Bruce says mildly.

His lack of reaction seems to agitate Loki. He begins to pace again, saying nothing, just back and forth and back and forth at progressively faster speeds. Finally: “I did it for him!”

“For who?”

“For him ,” Loki hisses, seemingly incensed that Bruce can’t just read his mind. Apparently realizing this, and regaining a semblance of rationality, he spits: “For Fa -- for Odin. For the Allfather. I was his cuckoo child, his second-place son, but Thor was gone and we were on the brink of war and this was my chance, it was my chance to prove that I was his, after all, that I was his and not theirs -- and I told him so, told him I’d done it for him, it was always for him and I told him --” faster, faster, his feet pounding into the ground, his hands clenching and unclenching and his eyes, when they pass by Bruce (but not on Bruce, on a memory a billion miles and several years away), “And he said,” Loki lets out a wild laugh, bares his teeth like a feral thing, and finally seems to remember Bruce. He walks over to him, looms above him, and Bruce thinks fuck , because his head remembers a murderer, and then his heart echoes fuck again, for an entirely different reason -- because his instincts are sensing a very fragile person and he’s terrified that if he says the wrong thing just now that Loki might shatter. “Can you guess what he said?”

“No,” Bruce murmurs, trying to find a moment to meet Loki’s rapidly darting eyes, to try and calm him with that bit of contact, that connection. The moment doesn’t come.

“He said,” Loki says, drawing himself up to his full height, “He said, ‘No, Loki,’”

A beat. Bruce waits for him to say it.

He does.

“And so I let go,” Loki finishes.

The quiet that follows is devastating.

Chapter Text

Bruce has so many things to say. But he recognises (he has that much awareness, at least) that now is not the time to say them. Now doesn’t feel like a time to say anything. He doesn’t know what to say.

Equally, he knows that saying nothing would be a monumental mistake. Would put a wall in between him and Loki, a clear barrier, something tall and thick and uncrossable. Not that they have not fought through such walls before, but this feels different. Is different. The weight of what Loki just said is not something that Bruce can just shrug off and ignore, not when he has a sneaking suspicion that that’s exactly what the Asgardian royal family did, and look where that left them. Look where that left Loki. Look where that left Bruce , forced to dig up all their shit.

He needs to say something, he needs to, but what can he possibly say ?

He stands up.

Loki is eyeing him, tense and wary and expecting , like he’s anticipating -- what? Anger , over the confession that he tried to commit suicide? He’s looking at Bruce like he’s anticipating a blow.

Bruce thinks, a bit hysterically, that he doesn’t want to know what would happen if he actually ever tried to hit Loki. Possibly Loki would try to kill him. Possibly then Hulk would try to kill Loki. Possibly Bruce has decided just now that he should never, ever try that.

But hitting is not the same as touching , and against his every self-preservation instinct, Bruce is reaching out his arms. He’s doing so deliberately slowly, projecting every motion, giving Loki every opportunity to step away. Loki doesn’t. He doesn’t look like he knows what he would be stepping away from -- he’s eyeing Bruce’s arms with visible confusion and slight disdain, like he thinks Bruce has gone mad -- but he’s not stepping away.

When Bruce puts one tentative hand on his right shoulder, followed by the other on his left, Loki stiffens so much it seems as though he’s stopped breathing.

“Yes,” Bruce says. An affirmation. An acknowledgement.

Yes, you did. Yes, I hear you.

Yes , when Bruce is getting, more and more, the impression that Asgard’s royal family likes to dabble extensively in denial . Just yes . It should not be as powerful a word as he suspects it is.

He waits a second. Two. Waits to see if Loki will reach back -- as shocking as that would be, as impossible as that should seem, because this is Loki but also what if --

Loki does not.

After the third second, Bruce, just as slowly, releases him. Takes a step back.

He’s trembling, slightly. Not from fear, although it should be fear, he just gave the Invader of New York something pretty close to a hug -- and not shame, either, that he just did so. Something else. He can’t quite put his finger on it.

Loki’s staring at him. For once, there is no vitriol in that stare, no sneer on his lips. He is so open -- looks so much like a child , someone young and vulnerable, despite his true age of thousands of years -- that it makes Bruce uncomfortable.

Abruptly, Loki scoffs a quick laugh. It’s high and short and trails off into nothing. He’s still staring at Bruce, looking like he’s scrutinizing him for something -- some sign of insincerity, perhaps? When he doesn’t find it (because Bruce isn’t being insincere) he scoffs again and glances away. Glances back, quickly after, his eyes darting and scanning Bruce all the while.

Finally, he opens his mouth. Hesitates, seeming like he’s warring with himself over something. Then he says, “Yes, well.”

Bruce waits for him to go on.

He doesn’t.

Okay, then.

This conversation isn’t over. This conversation is so far from over it’s not funny. But for now, Bruce senses that the thing to do is not to push. The thing to do is back off for a little bit, and let Loki gather himself, and let them both sit with the gravity of what has just been revealed.

Because he’s pretty sure this is new information to Loki, also.

Maybe not new . But not something, perhaps, that he’s admitted fully to himself before. Not something he’s had time to truly face or to digest.

So Bruce changes the subject.

Now is not a time for silence.

“Scrapper 142 stopped by while you were gone,” he says, casually. It feels off to just leave what they uncovered alone, but he forces himself to do it, at least for the time being.

He knows he’s made the right choice when a little of the tension sags out of Loki’s shoulders.

“Oh?” he asks.

No sneering smirk. No anger. No she’s untrustworthy. I can’t believe you let her in . Just ‘Oh’.

Loki wants to change the subject, too, and it’s so clear it’s painful.

“She said she wanted to help,” Bruce says, testingly, because if ever there was a time for Loki to let down his guard a little and accept the idea of assistance, now is that time.

“Did she.”

“She said she could get us a ship.”

“Of course she did,” Loki says.

“Why don’t you think she’s telling the truth?” Bruce questions calmly. Rationally. Non-accusatory. 

He knows Loki doesn’t trust her. He wants to know, now, whether there’s a specific reason for that, or if it’s just his general mistrust of the world at large that makes him try so hard to push her away.

Of course, if there is a reason, Loki isn’t about to share it easily. Because of course he isn’t. Since when has he ever made anything easy?

“Why do you think she is ?” Loki demands.

“She helped us before,” Bruce answers. “And she hasn’t asked for any return on that favor.”

“A ploy,” spits Loki disparagingly. “To gain our trust.”

Our. Not my .

‘Our’ trust. As though Loki thinks of them, however unconsciously, as a team.

Our .

Bruce doesn’t know how he feels about that word. It hangs strangely in his head, but its presence is not necessarily unwelcome.

Our .

“Why would she need our trust?”

Loki just glares balefully. Either he thinks it’s too stupid a question to bother answering, or he doesn’t have a coherent response.

Finally, Loki says, “Even if she could get us a ship, it matters not. Until the Grandmaster is dead, I cannot leave.” And then he stiffens, realizing what he just said -- what he has admitted to. There was no our this time. Just I .

It’s a good thing Bruce has already come to terms with this. Good that he already realized it on his own, and has rationalized it on his own, or else this could very well have gone the way Loki thinks it will.

“And I can’t, either,” he says. He says it in the most matter-of-fact manner he can, because he knows Loki won’t take it well if he sees it as pity, sees it as anything but stone-cold pragmatism. “Because I need you to get me to Earth. However , she said she could also assist with whatever -- ‘hold’ the Grandmaster has over you. It’d be a lot simpler. You know as well as I do that I don’t have any real control over the Hulk. A plan that doesn’t involve him is infinitely more reliable.”

“As though a plan involving her is any better?” Loki scoffs at him. “No. At least the Hulk is a known quantity.”

“She said to contact her when you came back. She wants to talk to both of us.”

“And you told her yes ?” Loki’s eyes widen. He gestures wildly at nothing in particular. “You admitted to wanting to leave? Oh, you dumb fool, you idiot --”

Bruce waits it out.

“-- you pathetic worm, she’ll have told the Grandmaster, now. She’ll have told him we wish to escape. She’ll have told him we’re plotting against him. Any minute now,” he says, and turns on his heel, scanning the room as though he thinks attackers will have spontaneously manifested, his eyes darting from one attacker-empty area to the next, “Any minute now, his guards will be storming in, and we’ll both be tossed into the Arena --”

“Are you saying that, up until now, the Grandmaster’s trusted you completely?”

Loki pauses, his tirade momentarily interrupted. “No,” he snaps, quickly. “But he’s never had concrete evidence before, and now he will, and you imbecile --”

“But she’s been telling the Grandmaster you’re shady from the start,” Bruce cuts in again. “Or I assume she has. When I first arrived, she flat-out said you were a liar and advised him not to trust a word you said, and he didn’t do anything then. Why would he believe her now? It’s her word against yours.”

Loki doesn’t say anything.

Not that he necessarily has nothing to say. Bruce suspects that, as Scrapper 142 said, he’s fallen out of favor, and that maybe that means the Grandmaster actually will be more susceptible to such rumors. Will be looking for excuses. Bruce isn’t stupid -- but that doesn’t mean there aren’t advantages to acting that way, sometimes. Playing the fool in conversations sometimes leads to better explanations than he’d get otherwise.

But he also suspects that Loki might not be willing to admit to a loss of favor, no matter how obvious it might be. It takes from him an implied advantage. Bruce already knows, of course, and he suspects that Loki knows Bruce knows, but it’s the principle of the thing. Or something.

He’s proven right when Loki only shrugs irritably. Then, shockingly, he says: “Fine, then. Contact her. You’ll see. We’ll both suffer for it, but if you need concrete evidence of your folly, far be it my place to stop you. You Midgardians are like children: your parents can tell you the water of a boiling pot is hot a thousand times, but until you finally touch it and are burned, you will keep trying to reach your hand inside. Needy, insistent things.”

Well, first of all, Loki is not Bruce’s parent.

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

He hopes that was just a useful (if somewhat uncomfortable) analogy, and not something all Asgardians/adopted Asgardians actually believe about Midgardians. Humans. Humans . (He’s been here too long). Some parent Asgard would be, he thinks. What sort of parent never checks up on their child for its entire lifespan? Not even child support! Not even a hey, I exist ! 

He’s getting off-track.

“I can’t,” Bruce says, when the rest of what Loki said sinks in.

“Sure you can.” Loki smiles innocently. “I’m sure she’s around somewhere. How about you just go out and ask somebody for directions? You seem well enough convinced of everyone’s good intentions. I’m sure it will work out just perfectly for you.”

“That’s not what I said,” Bruce says flatly.

“Really? Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. “But if you want me to -- sure, I’ll go on out. I’ll tell everyone I’m asking for Scrapper 142 on your behalf and that it’s very important, and we can see how that goes over. Or you could just find her. She seems convinced you’re perfectly able.”

Loki glares at him.

Bruce shrugs. Waits a second to see if Loki will say anything else. He doesn’t.

“Fine, then,” Bruce says, and makes as though he’s going to the door. He has to pass next to Loki in order to do so, but Loki doesn’t make any move to stop him.

When Bruce actually starts turning the handle and such a preventative attempt has yet to be made, he starts to think bluffing in this way was not the right move.

When he takes his first couple of steps into the hallway, only to look over his shoulder and be met with Loki’s half-smirk, he sighs, gives up, and turns back around.

Loki sniffs. “There you go.”

“Does that mean you’ll contact her?”

And Loki says, as though it was what he meant to say all along: “Of course I will.”

“Of course,” Bruce says, exasperated and exhausted, torn somewhere in between the two. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

(he wants to go home . He wants Natasha’s smirks back, and the irritation that is Tony, and Clint’s bad jokes. He wants --)

“That is,” Loki tacks on at the end, “If your beastly half hasn’t torn the necessary device to pieces."

 Because of course he does.

Of course he can’t resist the opportunity for one more jibe. One more needling remark. One last dig, as though proving to someone (who? Bruce certainly isn’t fooled -- they are far, far past that point) that that’s still all there is to him. 

But Bruce allows it, because maybe Loki needs it, needs that normalcy, no matter how intolerable that “normal” makes him to be around.

“If that’s the case,” Bruce says, because it is plausible, although he doubts it’s true (wants to doubt it’s true). “Couldn’t you have a -- letter delivered, or something? Like the Grandmaster did, when --” he hesitates, infinitesimally, then just keeps going with the realization that any attempt to dance around the subject will just make Loki more irritated with him, “-- when he invited us to that party?”

Thankfully, Loki doesn’t seem to have any negative reaction to that, despite Bruce’s suspicions about several potentially traumatizing things that may have occurred at said party. And although “traumatizing” and “Loki” still don’t sound like words that should belong in the same sentence (or at least not in any sentence where it isn’t Loki dishing out the trauma)  it’s become abundantly clear that they do. At least in some ways.

( Maybe , Bruce tries not to think, because he’s been thinking far too hard, because he’s done , he tells himself he’s done with trying to pull apart Loki’s motivations, the party wasn’t actually that traumatic. Or, well. Comparatively.)

( Maybe, because Loki was almost -- consenting, or wasn’t actively saying no, and even if he knew it was because it wouldn’t matter if he did -- but he was able to convince himself -- maybe because the situation is greyer -- maybe then -- )

(Bruce tells the not-thinking part of his brain to shut up.)

Still: no visible reaction from Loki, aside from the way he barks out, “Ha! No. While primitive races such as your own might still rely on such manners of communication, even trash planets like Sakaar have moved far beyond that. The Grandmaster is only able to get away with such…quaint novelties because of his status.”

“Ah,” Bruce says, and doesn’t say that humans don’t really use letters anymore, either. He’s sure Loki would just laugh at him. “So what do they use?”

Loki blinks, then shrugs carelessly, and Bruce proceeds to watch as Loki walks determinedly over to the place where the closet used to stand. There’s nothing there, of course -- Bruce had moved even the littler splinters into the pile in the corner -- and he’s starting to think that maybe Loki wasn’t just being his typical assholish self when he’d said Hulk could have destroyed his communication device. Which. Bruce had known was a possibility, but it’s starting to feel less “possible” and more “probable”.

But guilt -- over something Bruce didn’t even have control over -- isn’t going to help anything, so he resolutely does not apologize to either Loki or himself.

Anyway.

Loki taps the wall, knocks at it. Kicks it lightly with his boot. Finally, he turns back to Bruce, a look of false woe on his face. He’s practically pouting as he says, “I’m afraid -- oh, wait.” And then he reaches up and taps it one more time, and suddenly that little patch of wall that his fingers had touched lights up a bright blueish-white. Loki drags one of the corners of the -- screen? hologram? -- to make it larger, still smiling at Bruce all the while.

“Why is it behind the closet?” Bruce asks.

“I don’t see any closet,” Loki says brightly. “Are you certain your vision is working properly?”

Asshole . “Where the closet used to be, then.”

“ Oh ,” Loki says, with an exaggerated shrug of realization. “It isn’t. It’s wherever I’d like it to be -- whatever’s most convenient. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to know,” he adds benevolently. “There are only so many limitations of your race you’re able to overcome.”

“You’re an asshole,” Bruce says bluntly. “You knew Hulk hadn’t managed to destroy it, because it’s the whole wall.”

He expects Loki to get pissed, to say something about the “ audicity of a mere mortal deigning to address him as such” -- still keeping his godly distance, or whatever the fuck Loki tells himself -- but he doesn’t. He looks strangely delighted. He’s eyeing Bruce in a way that Bruce isn’t sure he likes.

Like they’re co-conspirators. Like they’re in on the same joke. Except they’re not , not even close to it -- they are working together out of necessity, or at least they were , until Bruce had decided to ask -- well, okay, but what are they now, then? Bruce doesn’t like feeling like he’s a co-conspirator. It feels like a betrayal -- of Earth, of his own values.

And yet it had been his own values that also had him giving Loki something that, he’s sure to an impartial observer, would look damnably similar to a hug .

He’s confused all of the time now. Torn in two radically different directions. It’s not good for his own sanity.

Loki says, “I didn’t know for certain,” which serves to remind Bruce that he’s also having a conversation right now and can’t just retreat into his own head. Then: “Perhaps I forgot.”

“Sure,” Bruce says.

Loki’s not doing anything anymore. He’s just standing next to that blue square on the wall, as though waiting -- but it’s not for a message, because he hasn’t sent a message yet. So Bruce doesn’t know who he’s waiting for -- he’s the only one involved on this side of this particular task. Unless he’s waiting for Bruce, but like hell is that ever going to happen. Loki’s too full of himself to accept Bruce’s input.

Bruce offers it anyway. Just in case. “Just tell her to stop by for -- I don’t know, a drink. Innocent enough if it gets intercepted. That’s all she wants.”

Actually, Scrapper 142 had said something along the lines of he can find me. But Bruce doesn’t think that would go over well -- might discourage Loki from reaching out at all -- so he doesn’t relay that part of the message. He’s reasonably sure (although he doesn’t know why ) that Scrapper 142 will show up anyway.

Especially if Loki really does have a drink for her.

Loki sneers at him. “Oh, sure. Simple and innocent, of course, only if she herself is not the one to turn on us.” 

(Again, that damned pronoun: us )

(Loki and Bruce: the collective)

Bruce says, “Okay, but she hasn’t done that yet.”

“And you wish to gift-wrap an opportunity for her?”

“You already said you’d do it.”

There is a long, drawn out moment where Bruce is certain Loki wants to say, petulantly, I’ve changed my mind .

Instead, he turns back to the blue square on the wall. Taps a few more things. The screen changes colors to a vibrant purple, and then Loki taps out something that must be a message.

Bruce wonders how Loki would react if Bruce said something about how this “civilized” technology is actually not dissimilar to tech available at Stark Tower. A mortal dwelling.

He’s tempted, but also knows better than to sidetrack Loki -- not now when he’s finally cooperating.

The purple brightens briefly, and then the screen fades back to its original state: that soft blue.

With a flourish, Loki turns back to Bruce. “I suppose,” he says thoughtfully, “When the time comes, I could push you ahead of me, slip a knife in your back -- somewhere agitating -- and let the emergence of the beast serve as a distraction while I make my way elsewhere…” The once she betrays us doesn’t need to be said; Loki’s objected enough already that it’s heavily implied.

Nonetheless, it’s empty talk. Loki’s still trapped by -- something, by whatever the Grandmaster has on him. Assuming Scrapper 142 is trustworthy, she should prove useful in that regard. Hopefully.

And then they can leave. They can leave .

Take a ship, like she said, and then Bruce can let Loki steer them to somewhere in the Nine Realms, from where he can then drop Bruce off on Earth, easy as pie, and in return Bruce won’t try to arrest him and will let him leave peacefully (as though he could stop him, but it’s the sentiment that counts) and Loki can go off somewhere where he’s happier and hopefully do some self-improvement. And also get some therapy from somebody qualified . Bruce isn’t even dreading a potentially-really-long trip through space with Loki. A spaceship can’t be any worse than this cursed room.

He’s almost excited . Which is messed up. The relief he feels at the thought is so great it’s circled around to something almost like happiness.

That is: if she follows through.

Bruce has been forced to defend her so ardently to Loki that he’s almost started to think of her as a guaranteed quantity even to himself. Of course she’ll come through. Of course she’ll get them out. Thinking that is reassuring, and so he wants to keep thinking it. Optimism is more fun. But there is a not-small chance Loki’s actually the one who’s right.

“And what?” Loki demands sharply. Apparently he’s grown impatient with Bruce’s lack of response. “We just wait here for the enforcers to arrive? Sitting ducks?”

(a human turn of phrase, Bruce notes)

“If we leave, she won’t know how to find us,”

And we want her to? scream Loki’s eyes. His mouth hisses: “Neither will they .”

“A risk we’ll have to take.”

“ You may take it,” Loki corrects, but he doesn’t move. He just stands there, still by the blue almost-screen on the wall, practically vibrating.

Abruptly, that screen flashes purple once more.

Loki spins to face it immediately, his eyes scanning the text that’s popped up with a frantic rapidness Bruce isn’t sure he could match if he tried.

When he finishes, his face is pale.

“What?” Bruce demands, nervous in spite of himself.

“She says, ah,” Loki stumbles, uncharacteristic enough for him that it makes Bruce’s stomach drop. “She says -- well.” He reads the thing again, as though that will make a difference. Bruce doubts it will. It only looks to be about two lines long.

“She’s busy,” Loki says, quickly, abandoning his hesitation in favor of just spitting the words out, getting it over with. Whatever it is. “A new potential gladiator just got dragged in from the scrap heaps. She has battled for -- ownership, and is now busy with the sale.”

Slavery , Bruce thinks grimly. He supposes he already knew that. He just hadn’t quite consciously put it together that Scrapper 142 deals in that system, too: not only that, but that she herself is a slaver.

Maybe Loki’s right not to trust her.

Possibly Bruce has made a monumental mistake.

Regardless, that can’t be the reason Loki’s so pale. Presumably, he already knew that.

“So what?” Bruce asks. “She can come and join us after the…sale, can’t she?”

Loki shakes his head, then stops. Nods slightly. He doesn’t look like he’s aware he’s doing any of this. “She asks if I know him,” he says finally. His face is drawn into an expression Bruce can’t decipher: some mix of fear, of anticipation, of something else. Before Bruce can ask why Scrapper 142 would think something like that, he adds, “The new gladiator said he was from Asgard.”

Loki meets Bruce’s eyes.

“He told her his name is Thor.”

Chapter Text

Fuck , is Bruce’s first thought, which should not be his first thought. That thought feels like a betrayal. Of course he wants Thor here -- Thor is his teammate and his friend, and Bruce has been direly missing those things throughout his stay on Sakaar. He’s been especially missing the feelings of safety and security that come with having someone he can rely on to not pull the floor out from underneath him at the last minute. It’s stupid, because logically having a friend along won’t make the danger disappear, and yet he still desperately wants someone to fill that space. Why shouldn’t that person be Thor?

And yet: fuck .

Because their plan -- his and Loki’s, that is -- was just beginning to sort-of come together. They were almost going to be out of here, and now he has a dark feeling that it isn’t going to be that easy. Thor’s arrival is going to throw a wrench in things and Bruce shouldn’t -- he shouldn’t! -- feel upset, but he is. He may like the guy, but Thor isn’t exactly the type of person who can just exist inconspicuously. He’s loud and he’s large and he makes his presence known. He’ll make an impact one way or another.

They were almost going to leave.

Bruce is sure the expression on his face is nothing attractive as he asks, “Is it -- the right Thor?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Loki snaps. At least he has no grounds to judge Bruce on his unattractive face: he’s slowly regaining color, but he’s still a pasty white, and his own features are twisted into something half-snarling, half-desperate. Then: “There aren’t exactly a lack of Thors running around Asgard. It’s a very common name; many folk like to name their sons after the crown prince. I’ve even met a couple of Thoras.”

That isn’t something Bruce had ever considered before.

(...he wonders if there are little child Lokis, also?)

Wouldn’t it be funny, if this turned out to be a false alarm, after all? If Scrapper 142 has captured a completely unrelated “Thor, of Asgard” and he and Loki are panicking over nothing?

“But why would she think you know this Thor, if there are lots of them? Is Asgard that small of a place?”

“That’s the issue with that theory,” Loki says grimly. “I introduced myself as Prince Loki,” because of course he had, “And she shouldn’t have -- thought I know him, unless she’s drunker than normal, if he hadn’t also introduced himself as Prince Thor. And unless he’s lying -- he could very well be lying, to weasel his way out of slavery -- that means he’s, well.” Loki glares at the ceiling. “The ‘right’ Thor.”

Fuck.

“Okay, then,” Bruce says. Maybe if he pretends this is fine, it’ll turn out to be fine. (Who is he kidding?). “So we’ve got to go rescue him, right? Or can she bring him to us instead and stop the sale? We can’t just leave him there.” As much as that would make things simpler.

Come to think of it, does Bruce know anything about what Thor’s been up to the past little while, during the time in which Hulk has apparently been hanging out ( killing ) on Sakaar? He doesn’t even know how Loki ended up here. Loki’d evaded that question with the same ease he evades anything he actually doesn’t want to talk about.

Is Thor here looking for Loki? To -- arrest him again, or whatever?

Is that why Loki’s nervous? Bruce is just nervous because this messes with their plan. He’d assumed Loki was nervous for the same reason, and maybe also because he isn’t ready for a family reunion, after everything. Because -- fuck, that’s right, Thor’s supposed to think Loki is dead, isn’t he? 

So either Thor doesn’t know Loki’s alive, and Loki’s very-much-alive-ness is going to be a nasty shock, or he’s just found out, and did the rational thing and marched unprepared down to an unknown planet to collect him, and in the process got himself captured and enslaved. As you do.

Well, that’s just great. Fantastic. Amazing.

“And what makes you think we can’t?” Loki demands of him. Bruce’s mind struggles to catch up and fill in the implied: can’t just leave him , Loki means. “I owe him nothing. You owe him nothing. Out of all your Avengers, he is the only one capable of searching for you, and he didn’t. He left you here. You would have remained here until the end of your days if it weren’t for me. Neither of us owe him anything . Let the oaf rot for all I care. Maybe slavery will finally pound some humility into his thick skull.”

Bruce has a little better idea of where Loki’s vitriol is coming from, now, but that doesn’t make it any easier to listen to. Hearing him condemn his own brother to slavery --

But their issues aren’t Bruce’s place to interfere with. His job is just to get home.

( Ha ! Liar.)

(It’s far too late for that to be the only thing he has to do)

“No,” Bruce says firmly. Loki’s attempt to drive a wedge between Bruce and Thor couldn’t be more obvious if he tried; the fact that his words may have hit a little too close to home is inconsequential. “We at least have to make sure it’s him. And if it is him, we’re taking him with us.”

“Oh, we are , are we?”

“Yes,” Bruce says. He’s realized lately that that’s the best way to cut through Loki’s bullshit: monosyllables, simplicity, yes and no answers Loki can’t twist to his advantage. Not that he won’t still try, of course.

“And if it isn’t him?” Loki demands savagely. “You’ll just leave him there, then? Some other innocent Asgardian civilian, condemned to slavery on a depraved planet?”

Bruce’s stomach twists. “We can’t save everyone,” he says, and that’s true, but even as he says it, the words feel oily on his tongue. Tainted.

“Some hero you are,” Loki says. He opens his mouth as though to keep going, and then -- uncharacteristically -- censors himself. Which is strange, because he’s had no problem tearing Bruce apart before. But Bruce is glad anyways -- what Loki’s already said hurts enough, another blow landing closer and harder than Bruce would like.

Rallying himself, Bruce says, “Yes, it’s awful, but we can’t get hung up on one person just because he shares the name of a friend. In that case, we’d have to go after -- well, everyone. For it to be justified. And we can’t do that. We just can’t.”

(Bruce ignores the niggling part of his mind that says Captain America would have. Steve would have .)

(He’s not Steve.)

(He’s just a person, working to try and make his curse an asset to the real heroes, and he doesn’t always succeed even at that.)

“Oh, I agree,” Loki says sweetly, and lets that fact be the insult.

But it doesn’t feel like as much of an insult as it should.

“Can you get Scrapper 142 to give us a description or something?” Bruce tries to get them back on track. Even though what that ‘track’ is has apparently changed. Because Thor is here .

“I could,” Loki says. “She’d probably answer, considering the fact that she was the one to bring him up in the first place. But have you considered the fact that maybe his sudden appearance is a trap? She could be making his existence up entirely. She knows who my brother is.”

“How?” Is Asgard’s royal family that famous? “Also, I thought she thought you were a fake. And if you were a fake, why’d you give a shit about some new captive named Thor?”

“I wouldn’t,” Loki says, thoughtfully. “Perhaps she’s been convinced, then. Perhaps reason has finally dispersed her cloud of inebriated foolishness. Or perhaps she’s counting on the fact that, to maintain legitimacy, I must investigate this Thor and see if it’s the right one. Perhaps she doesn’t believe my lineage after all. All she needs is to lure me there; she doesn’t truly need to have Thor present to greet me.”

“But she doesn’t need to lure you there,” Bruce argues. “She could get at you just as easily here.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want the Grandmaster to know,” Loki sniffs.

Perhaps you’re just being unreasonably difficult .

But that’s not fair. Bruce knows as well as Loki does that Loki isn’t protesting because of Scrapper 142; he’s protesting, delaying , because of Thor. Because of what Thor’s arrival might mean for him. Easier, Bruce knows all too well, to box someone into one category or another. To think of someone only in terms of what’s most convenient: Thor, the enemy instead of Thor, the brother and the competitor and the friend and the foe and. And, and, and . That’s harder to do when someone isn’t simply a distant idea, and instead is a very real person right in front of you.

(Loki, the enemy, instead of Loki, the asshole who is sometimes kind and sometimes scared and sometimes young and sometimes violent and sometimes, sometimes a friend --)

So Bruce concedes, “Maybe. It wouldn’t hurt to at least ask her what he looks like.”

Glaring, Loki also concedes, and spins around once more to type out the query.

Maybe thirty seconds go by before Loki is able to report, tightly. “Blonde. Long hair. Blue eyes. Asgardian armor. Introduced himself as ‘God of Thunder’. Of course, she could have found all that out without ever seeing him.”

“Right,” says Bruce distantly. Fuck . “Yeah. Um, can she stop the sale?”

“No,” Loki says, without even pausing to ask her.

“How do you know that?” Bruce demands, irked. “She could.”

“She won’t,” Loki says with zero hesitation. “She’s trying to sell him to the Grandmaster. And he isn’t likely to let her back out of a sale without questions, which we cannot afford . Do you understand me? We cannot.”

Oh, fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck .

Why does it have to be that dude, out of all the potential buyers on Sakaar?

(Bruce has seen the Grandmaster’s effect on Loki -- and if he can see that great of an effect on Loki , for whom getting to admit hurt is akin to pulling teeth, what could the Grandmaster do to Thor ?)

“How do you know she’s selling to the Grandmaster?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s her main buyer?” Loki’s lips quirk in a humorless smile. “Have you seen Thor?”

Yes. Bruce has.

Thor would make the perfect gladiator.

“Fortunately,” Loki goes on, “If Scrapper 142’s the one who sold him, she should still have…control over him. The Grandmaster usually doesn’t -- ah,” Loki breaks off, “He usually doesn’t buy people for himself . He buys them for his Contest of Champions. The Arena. It’s easier for him if he just has people…donate champions, while retaining control over them, in exchange for money.”

“What are the chances Thor’ll be able to overpower her and get out on his own?” Bruce asks, because he knows Thor. The thunderer’s strength is nothing to scoff at. 

“Low,” Loki says, his forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown.

Good .

Well, not good in regards to Thor, but good in regards to Loki’s continued cooperation.

If Bruce is interpreting this right, he’s stopped freaking out about Thor, and is instead working on Thor’s presence like a puzzle, a mission: how to do this instead of how to deal with this . The distinction is small, but important.

“Why’s that? How strong is she?”

“Oh, not stronger than him,” Loki says dismissively, then pauses. “Well, not that she’s yet proven. She has been…surprising, in some aspects. But not many can outperform Thor in sheer, brute strength. No -- she’ll have an obedience disk on him.”

Bruce doesn’t like the sound of that . He’s sure he’s probably thinking of it in the wrong context…but still. The idea makes him slightly sick.

“And what does that mean?” he asks, a bit unwillingly. He’s pretty sure he already has the basic idea. It’s in the name, after all.

Sure enough, Loki confirms it. “From what I’ve seen, it means she’ll have the ability to administer electrical shocks to him, should he fail to do what she wants. Perhaps she can do more. I wouldn’t know. It’s a bit ironic, actually, as lightning is supposed to favor Thor, and now it serves to hinder him.” The pleasure in his tone is obvious.

“Isn’t he the God of Thunder?”

“It’s a bit funny,” Loki says, shrugging his shoulders up, and he says funny but he doesn’t laugh. “Yes, technically, but with the way his powers have manifested, I’ve always thought ‘God of Lightning’ would be more accurate. Or storms.”

They keep straying from the topic at hand. Bruce can’t get mad about it, because it’s partially his fault, but also it appears to be his responsibility to keep them talking productively, as Loki doesn’t seem too interested in doing so. Even if Bruce doesn’t really want to, either.

And even if it’s much more enjoyable to debate the finer points of Thor’s abilities with a sarcastic Loki than to discuss the finer points of Thor’s enslavement.

They had just left off on the electric shocks Scrapper 142 would apparently be able to administer to Bruce’s teammate, which Bruce is better off thinking about in abstract terms. Hypotheticals like strategy instead of real people . Aliens. Whatever.

Not that Bruce has ever been particularly good at strategy, either.

( Focus )

“Is the disk removable?”

“Yes,” Loki says. “She should have the control panel, which should have some method of removal.”

Should is not as definitive a term as say, will , which is the word Bruce would prefer. Relief floods his body anyway.

“She’ll likely guard it well,” Loki warns, but as Bruce is relying on ‘she’ using the control panel, that doesn’t matter, so he doesn’t acknowledge this.

“Okay,” he says. Okay . “So it doesn’t really matter if she sells him, because she can just release him regardless?”

A pause, as Loki goes back to staring sullenly at the message square on the wall. “She can ,” he says, pursing his lips. Will she ? he means.

“She’s helping us,” Bruce points out.

“Yes, well. She has yet to give us a real reason for that,” Loki says. The words are clipped. “Forgive me if I have my doubts about that much, let alone her willingness to add a fourth person to this little escape plan.”

At least he’s not arguing about adding Thor to the “little escape plan” anymore.

He might be dreading seeing him, and he might hate him, but it’s clear that -- just as Thor is somehow able to simultaneously both battle and reminisce about his little brother -- the conflict there goes both ways.

Bruce had had doubts, before. But it’s become increasingly obvious that just because Loki doesn’t say it as plainly as Thor -- Thor brings up his love of Loki both through the wistful ways he describes their past and also just by straight-up saying it, which has always been a little awkward, as the Avengers hadn’t exactly found themselves on good terms with Loki the one time they’d met him-- that doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean it just as strongly. Loki never says anything plainly. Bruce can only imagine saying that sort of thing would be even harder from someone so accustomed to lying -- especially if, sometimes, Loki really does hate Thor. So sometimes, Bruce bets, it isn’t really a lie.

Thor has also many a time bitterly, sorrowfully wondered aloud about how Loki could have forgotten the closeness of their younger years so quickly.

Bruce can’t help but wonder himself how Thor, who should know Loki better than anyone, hadn’t properly seen the turmoil beneath himself .

But then: maybe he’s too close to the situation. Maybe that’s the problem with everyone who actually wants to help Loki: they’re too close to it all, so close that there isn’t any way they could possibly not be part of the problem themselves, and so how could they help? How could they help if they have their own biased views of things -- and if they, too, are hurting?

Maybe Bruce, on the outside of it all, is able to see things more clearly. He’s also got his own biases, of course, but they’re not ones that have been held for centuries. Which is something. Not enough, probably, but it’s something.

(Which is…great)

(Toss all that responsibility on him , why don’t you)

(Bruce logically knows that he doesn’t have to take that ‘responsibility’ on. It’s all his choice, still. His choice, everything, all of it: yes, he’s here, but he doesn’t have to do anything. He could pass the rest of his unasked-for trip to space alternating between cold silence and one-word answers. He could speak to Loki as necessary and not beyond that, and that would be easy , and that way, he wouldn’t have to grapple with all of the moral dilemmas that come with actually talking to Loki. The dilemmas that inevitable show up when you’re something not-quite-friends with a man who has personally murdered people you knew )

(He doesn’t have to take it on)

(But also, also : how could he not?)

“So where will he be?” Bruce asks. He thinks for a moment of clarifying: where will Thor be -- but really, what other he could they be talking about?

“He’ll be in holding with the rest of the champions,” Loki says. “I can only imagine the Grandmaster is even more excited by a new arrival like him than he would be normally, as, ah.” He gives Bruce a look. “His other favored Champion has mysteriously vanished.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry about that,” Bruce says. Is Loki expecting Bruce to feel guilty about escaping the probably-insane dictator who had more or less enslaved him, too? 

(Although the Hulk, Bruce suspects, had probably been fairly willing)

(All the people to smash that he could possibly want? All that destruction, for once instead of being criticized, instead being praised ?)

(Although, by the point any criticism is thrown around, it’s usually Bruce back behind the wheel, forced to take the brunt of it. So maybe Hulk hasn’t really noticed that side of it.)

(Anyway)

“I can’t say I’m very sorry, either,” Loki says with dark, vicious glee. “Although it probably won’t do Thor any favors.”

Right.

Thor.

“Why not? Won’t it be better for him? Otherwise he’d be battling the Hulk, right?” And probably losing , Bruce’s mind fills in. Loki’d proven back in New York that even almighty Asgardians aren’t able to emerge entirely unscathed from a tangle with Bruce’s other self.

“Perhaps,” Loki concedes. “Or perhaps the Grandmaster will see ‘Thor, God of Thunder’ and all of those infernal muscles and think oh, something shiny and interesting --” Loki’s voice hitches infinitesimally. “And then he’ll be watching , and Thor will have tighter security placed around him, and maybe Scrapper 142 won’t be able to just release him -- if she’d even do that to begin with -- because the Grandmaster will have found his own way to make Thor stay right where he wants him --”

Are they even talking about Thor anymore?

“And, well,” Loki finishes. “If the Hulk were still the Grandmaster’s champion, Thor would hardly have made the Grandmaster look twice. He’d just be more meat. He’d just be his blood and bone, and whatever sparkles the Grandmaster could dress him up in, and -- eventually -- whatever death would give the greatest entertainment to the crowd in the Arena.”

That is entirely too much description, Bruce thinks, a bit queasy. He’d liked when Loki was more vague with everything, in general.

(That’s a lie. No, he hadn’t. He’d rather know.)

“Okay, so, the sooner we get him and us out, the better? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That was always the case,” sniffs Loki, a bit snootily. “But…yes. Or,” he offers, falsely bright, “We could still leave him. He’ll make enough of a spectacle that it should be easier to sneak off ourselves. He’d be fine, I’m sure.” There’s a smirk dancing on Loki’s lips as he waits for Bruce’s inevitable protest.

Bruce wonders what he’d do if, for once, Bruce didn’t protest. If he just went along with things: sure, let’s ditch Thor, make things easier for ourselves . What then? Without Bruce to balance things out, to fight back against statements he’s pretty sure Loki doesn’t mean , just wants to say -- what then?

Would Loki go back on his statement? Would he say: no, actually, I’ve changed my mind ?

He wouldn’t, Bruce doesn’t think. He wouldn’t compromise his credibility like that.

So he’d leave. And he’d hate it. And he’d hate Bruce. And then he’d probably do something stupid with all of that built-up hate and frustration.

Like lead an invasion.

Or go back for Thor on a suicidal rescue mission.

But of course, Bruce would never do that. And so he skims right by the suggestion without even bothering with the token argument. They’ve both already decided they’re rescuing Thor, or recruiting him, or whatever. Loki’s just talking, so Bruce doesn’t need to protest. “So are we going down to make sure that it’s him? And coordinate with the other half of --” What even are they? “The group?”

“We are not a group ,” Loki snaps. “As soon as we are off this planet and in safer territory, we are splitting up. That is not a ‘group’.”

Of course they’re splitting up.

Obviously.

Bruce doesn’t even know why Loki has to state that aloud -- obviously, obviously , this isn’t an alliance that will last.

But for now -- right now -- they’re a group, by most definitions of the word. Bruce has more or less made peace with that.

It doesn’t seem as though Loki has, quite yet.

“Alright,” he says mildly. “So are we?”

“Need I remind you that it could easily be a trap ?” Loki makes a wide, sweeping gesture in front of him, as though miming what the trap could look like.

Bruce copies his inflection but not the gesture, stopping just shy (hopefully) of being mocking. “Need I remind you that staying in this room could also be a trap? Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t stay put exactly where we’re expected, at the very least, so that it’s harder to find us? Isn’t a part of your whole thing chaos and unpredictability and all of that?”

Oops. Loki’s glaring harder now.

Bruce really hadn’t meant to mock him, but it’s difficult to convey exactly what one means with just words, and Loki’s touchy at the best of times.

Still.

“I’m assuming you’ve made note of where the Champions’ holding area is?” Bruce asks, trying to soften the unintended insult with flattery. It’s not empty flattery, either -- he’s sure that Loki has. For someone who has also been dropped in the middle of an alien planet without (presumably) much preparation, he’s certainly acclimated a lot better than Bruce has. And also, Loki being the paranoid guy that he is, he’s probably memorized the layout of the palace by now.

“Yes,” Loki says stiffly. Confirmation.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“You’re so impulsive,” Loki says. His tone drips condescension. “Even Thor at least sometimes pretends to have a plan, and his brain is probably the size of one of my mother’s sewing thimbles. But you, a supposed Doctor , apparently like to leap into situations with a lack of thought rivaling even him. I pity your patients.”

“Yes, thank you . Are we going?”

Loki gestures vaguely at the door. He hasn’t turned off the makeshift screen behind him yet, but Bruce isn’t about to point that out. What does he care if the Grandmaster racks up some extra bills, if that’s even a thing here?

“After you,” Loki says.

Chapter Text

The Champions’ holding area is not at all what Bruce had been expecting.

He doesn’t really know what he was expecting -- a dungeon, maybe, or at least something resembling a cell where a person (or alien) might be imprisoned. But this isn’t that. There are bars, sure -- sort of, at least, in that they’re not tangible bars, and are instead flickering red and seemingly made of light -- but they almost seem more decorative than purposeful. And that’s not only because the bars aren’t metal. Bruce has been around Tony too long to hold any illusions about the power of technology. Also this is an alien planet -- whatever Tony can do, as much of a genius as he might be, Bruce is certain Sakaar has managed to produce technology that rivals even him. 

So, no: mostly, it’s because the space on the other side of the bars doesn’t look like a cell at all.

In fact, it looks pretty identical to the area he and Loki are standing in -- which is, to clarify, on the outside. It’s almost like the bars were an afterthought. Oh, here, let’s stick some bars here to be certain the gladiators won’t leave, but we needn’t renovate any further than that.

This place certainly seems in need of renovation.

To start: the whole place is dingy and shadowed. The lights, what little there are, are yellowed and dusty. The atmosphere they create inexplicably makes Bruce think of what cigarette breath would look like, were cigarette breath a place. Musty, grimy, and yet he’s sure there’s a certain pleasure in it, to those who belong here. This is the kind of place where people belong. Not necessarily regularly, but there are certain types of people who can probably slip right in and be at home among the poor lighting and sour smell. Scrapper 142, for example.

Loki and Bruce are not those types of people. They stick out like sore thumbs.

On both sides of the flickering barrier, stained and dull furniture has been scattered about for people to lean on or lounge in, haphazard and mismatched. It suits the haphazard, mismatched people who use them. All sorts, just like the party: small and scrappy aliens with brilliant yellow eyes, aliens with skin that looks like it’s melting, aliens who would appear human were they not a fetching shade of green. Booze flows freely from self-serving taps. There is laughter, drunken chatter (no wonder Scrapper 142 doesn’t manage to stay sober if it’s this easy to get her hands on her vice of choice) and an altogether much cheerier mood than Bruce would have expected from people who presumably know that they will probably die soon.

Maybe that’s what the alcohol is for.

There is a pulsing vibration he can feel beneath his borrowed boots -- presumably music, although he can’t hear a single note over the shouting and the clanging of weapons and the braying laughter that grates on every one of his nerves. The noise all blends into a sort of buzz. This place is loud. It’s stressful. Bruce feels the Hulk keenly now, straining and tugging beneath his skin. His heart is beating faster than it should; his feet are going slower than they should.

Impatient, or perhaps playing at confidence, Loki has long since pushed ahead. Bruce, overwhelmed, hadn’t watched exactly where he was going.

At least there aren’t as many people on this side of the bars. Bruce shouldn’t be thankful that the majority of the beings in the room are slaves and prisoners confined to their own section -- but he finds himself having to squash that emotion, regardless. At least it means that no matter how noisy and raucous they are, they cannot touch him.

And anyway, Bruce thinks as he watches a large, muscled reptilian man leverage himself on top of a squashy couch and roar triumphantly over some small victory, a battleaxe raised above his head and a feral grin stretching his cheeks, they don’t seem to be having too poor of a time.

Then he hates himself for thinking it.

“She’s not here,” someone says tightly into his ear.

Loki’s crept back up on him, is now standing warily at his left. Only he probably doesn’t look wary to anyone but Bruce; his back is straight, his chin tilted proudly, and he’s every inch the imperious prince in the way he’s tilting down his nose at the plebian seediness of this bar-prison-place. The wariness is only visible in his eyes, which are shadowed as they scan the room one last time for Scrapper 142.

He’s right, of course. She isn’t here. On the Non-Prisoner side, there are only three other “partigoers” -- a wizened looking man sitting at a wobbly table alone, flask in hand, and two women with green skin and hair shaved down to their scalps who talk quietly in the corner, heads hunched together. And then there is he and Loki, of course, equally hushed, another conspirational pair.

It’s just the cannon fodder that are enjoying themselves. They’re having the time of their lives.

Possibly for the last time.

(They can’t save everyone.)

“Did you ask anyone about her?” Bruce wants to know.

“What do you take me for?” Loki answers scathingly, which doesn’t actually answer the question. It could mean something different depending on what mood Loki’s in.

You fool, of course I asked, that’s the obvious course of action. What do you take me for?

You fool, of course I didn’t ask. No one can be trusted. What do you take me for?

“What about Thor?” Bruce pushes farther. “Did you ask any of the other gladiators about him?”

“Why don’t you do that, Bruce?” Loki asks sweetly, still glancing intermittently about the room and not at Bruce’s face. That’s a no, then. “You were once one of them, after all. The best of them, in fact. Perhaps you have some kind of…special connection.”

Asshole.

Bruce looks away from him in irritation, but inevitably, his eyes are drawn back to the one source of movement and energy in the place, which just so happens to be behind the flickering bars. He ends up watching that same muscled reptilian. The reptilian’s battle-axe is now embedded in the same chair he’d conquered previously. In the minute or so Bruce wasn’t paying him attention, he’s also somehow managed to get into a brawl with a tall, lean, and furry creature, who (unbeknownst to the reptilian, but very visible to Bruce) is holding a knife and priming to strike.

A lot of the prisoners are brawling, in fact. Bruce sees a lot of scratched-up faces (or probably-faces), and a lot of mysterious puddles on the floor that he hopes are just spilled drinks.

A lot of them have weapons, too -- whether they’re brawling or not. They’re casually swinging axes or swords or spears in the same way a child might drag around a teddy bear for comfort.

That’s…nice.

(and nonsensical. Who arms their slaves, even combat ones, until the last minute? Until it’s absolutely necessary?)

“That’s what I thought,” Loki says after the silence stretches too long. He must assume the silence was Bruce’s answer.

It would have been, if Loki hadn’t said that. And now Bruce has that prickling feeling under his skin, the instinctive bucking against the constraints of expectation. No, that feeling protests loudly, you’re wrong. I’ll do what I want to do. You’re wrong.

Even if, of course, Loki’d been right until he’d actually spoken.

“Maybe I do have a connection,” Bruce says instead, and walks forward with as much false bravado as he’s capable of. He’s sure Loki sees right through it, but it makes him feel better to pretend it’s fooling someone. Maybe that drunk old guy at the table.

Probably the guy is too drunk to be paying attention.

In his way is a large, mostly dried patch of something sticky yellow, and it makes an unpleasant tearing sound under his boot as Bruce is forced to step through it. It doesn’t look fresh. He hopes it isn’t fresh.

He weaves around a low, ruby-studded black table that looks like it belongs at a strip club, and finally makes his way over to the flickering bars, which he stays a healthy few feet away from. The prisoners inside don’t seem too concerned with the proximity of the bars, so Bruce isn’t, either, but it’s still probably best to be cautious. If Loki’s taught him anything so far, it’s overthinking absolutely everything.

“Hey,” he says, not loudly but not quietly either.

No one looks over, and Bruce feels his stomach sink.

Right. Fuck. The language thing.

What if none of them understand? He still hasn’t gotten to the bottom of why some people, like Loki and Scrapper 142 and the Grandmaster, manage to speak perfect English -- and why others can only look at Bruce with blank incomprehension any time he opens his mouth.

But he can’t be certain it’s like that here, with these aliens. It’s not that they’re looking at him and listening and understanding nothing. They’re not even facing in his direction. They’re all caught up in their own personal pleasures, which appear to mainly be brawling and booze, and apparently, Bruce doesn’t fit into their version of a pleasant evening. Probably they’re ignoring him.

Or maybe they haven’t heard at all.

“Hey,” he says again, and waves his hand above his head in a sort of universal greeting. It leaves him feeling strangely vulnerable, and he quickly brings it down again, curling both his arms together in front of his stomach defensively. His back muscles are clenched, his jaw tight, and he has to consciously force himself to relax -- especially because finally -- finally! -- someone has looked over at him.

Well. He says someone, but now that he’s really looking, he’s not too sure that’s actually the most accurate descriptor.

The “someone” looks like they would fit better in a national park or on a postcard than a prison/bar. If they weren’t moving, and if they didn’t have something that looks vaguely like a face and also some sort of metal clothing-slash-armor crisscrossing their body, Bruce would have thought, oh, what an interesting rock formation. Strange choice of decoration for a prison. This alien’s skin is made up of peaks and valleys of grey stone. A pebble texture. No, that isn’t right -- that makes him think of lizards, and this guy certainly isn’t a lizard. It’s not a pebble texture so much as it is just pebbles. Rocks.

Yes, that’s the only correct descriptor: rocks. A towering structure built out of rocks, maybe glued together for stability, only, no, it’s not a structure, that’s a person, actually.

Far from the oddest thing Bruce has seen here.

He decides to roll with it. 

 When Bruce makes eye contact -- yes, I’m asking you -- the stranger’s craggy face splits into a beaming smile. “Hey there,” the rock-alien says brightly.

Oh, thank God. He speaks English.

Bruce can’t think too hard about the mechanics of how that works or he’ll go crazy, so he allows the relief to flood his body without scrutinizing it too hard.

“Hey,” Bruce says, for the third time. Possibly this is a bad idea, but the guy seems friendly enough, and what can they lose at this point? “I was wondering if someone named Thor has shown up recently? Blonde hair? Um, kind of shaped like me?” If “me” had more muscles and was generally more attractive.

But on an alien planet, Bruce is probably the best option for comparison -- in that he’s human-shaped, which is no longer necessarily the norm. Another thing to get used to.

“Like you?” The guy makes a face and takes a few steps closer, looking Bruce up and down. “No, sorry, nobody like you recently. Sorry.”

“Not exactly like me,” Bruce persists desperately. “Just the same main components. His hair would be longer, and lighter, and he’d be -- stronger. Bigger muscles.” Do aliens made of rocks even know what hair is? Or muscles, for that matter?

“Nope, sorry,” the rock-guy says cheerily. “But if he’s really new he might not have made his way into the main area yet, and I wouldn’t know if he’s here then. He could be somewhere around. Is he important?”

Yes.

“I was just wondering,” Bruce says.

The rock-man eyes him skeptically.

Fair. That probably wasn’t the most convincing thing Bruce could have said.

“Who are you?” Bruce redirects, hoping to siphon the guy’s attention over to other topics.

“I’m Korg,” the guy says. And then, as if Bruce had asked: “I’m kind of the leader in here. As you can see, I’m made of rocks, but don’t let that get you down. I am, in fact, an organic being.”

Okay?

A long shot, but -- “If you’re the leader, isn’t it your responsibility to check out new arrivals?”

“No,” Korg says brightly. “Why, do you think I should?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Alright,” Korg says. “I’ll be right back.”

Wait, really?

Bruce is probably gaping a little, and he hopes Korg doesn’t notice, because: quite literally nothing has been that easy in recent memory.

But it seems like it might actually be that easy -- because without demanding payment, or even any hassling whatsoever, Korg turns around and strides out of sight. Presumably to somewhere that isn’t the “main holding” area.

Presumably to somewhere where Thor could be.

(Ha! Take that, Loki.)

(Bruce and his foolish questions have made it farther than Loki and his reticence) 

Korg hadn’t even asked why Bruce was looking for Thor. He hadn’t even asked for Bruce’s name.

Shit, is that a bad sign?

Bruce looks back, only to discover that Loki’s moved from the place he’d been standing before. His stomach drops -- because what if Loki’s finally left -- until his brain catches up to his eyes and realizes Loki’s merely migrated to one of the other tables. He’s holding a steaming mug and appears to be greatly enjoying whatever drink is inside -- there’s a contented smile on his face, and he’s lightly stirring the liquid with a luminous green stirring rod -- but, watching, Bruce doesn’t ever see him actually take a sip. 

Probably wise.

Bruce tries in vain to make eye contact, but it takes a good minute and a half for Loki to look up from the drink, and so Bruce is forced to stand there, frustrated and feeling like he wants to jump out of his own skin -- and equally, unfortunately aware that he can’t show that great of an emotion to anyone here. It could be noticed, exploited. He doesn’t dare walk over to Loki, either -- what if Korg comes back and can’t find him and he really does know where Thor is? And they miss Thor entirely just because Bruce was impatient?

It’s nonsensical -- logically, Korg could just scan the room to find him, as Bruce is doing now -- but it keeps Bruce rooted in place anyway.

Finally, Loki looks up, sees Bruce’s barely-contained energy, and lifts a brow.

Is that supposed to be a question?

Bruce nods in answer.

Loki rolls his eyes slightly, as though this is some great inconvenience, before gracefully setting the mug down on the table and standing up. His saunter over to Bruce is entirely too slow for Bruce’s liking.

“Well?” Loki asks tightly as he slows to a stop. 

“I got somebody to go look and see if Thor’s in some ‘new arrivals’ area,” Bruce says.

Without missing a beat, Loki retorts, “Or you got someone to pretend to go and look, and to leave you standing here like a fool while they go and spill any information you were stupid enough to give them to the Grandmaster. Or to anyone else looking for blackmail, for that matter.”

“You were the one who told me to ask,” Bruce snaps. Abruptly, he’s so angry. So angry, and upset, and embarrassed, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can do this -- how much longer he can keep running on fumes and hopes, when it’s clear that neither of he or Loki is certain exactly what they’re running to.

He’s sure it’s not a good sign how rapidly he’s been switching from elation to fury to depression lately.

He’s sure that someone, somewhere -- someone who is the right kind of Doctor, someone who is the kind of Doctor Bruce is not -- would diagnose him with something. Would laser in on those rapid changes. And would you like to talk about --

No, actually. No, Bruce would not.

“Also, I didn’t tell him why I was looking,” Bruce says. “How can he blackmail me with that?”

Loki gives him a pitying look.

“Fine,” Bruce says. “I’m sure there are ways.”

A beat. Then, surprisingly, Loki concedes: “No, you barely spoke to him. That is part of the reason I’m concerned.”

Which. Fair. Bruce is a little concerned about that part, too.

“Additionally,” Loki adds, “I’ve yet to see sign of your little Scrapper friend, which is another…issue.”

“She’s not my friend,” Bruce says, and Loki purses his lips as though to say and that makes it better? Bruce quickly hurries on, “Also, she never said she’d be here.”

“She implied it.”

“Did she?”

“She said she had captured a new gladiator called Thor, who she knows is my brother -- or who she knows I claim is my brother -- and this is the only place we have access to where he could possibly be. She knows what she was doing.”

“Maybe she thought you wouldn’t come.”

“If I weren’t forced to put up with your incessant optimism,” Loki snaps, “I wouldn’t have.”

“See?”

Loki’s eyes narrow into icy blue slits. “She should still be here. This is exactly the kind of place she belongs -- I can see her now, sitting at that dingy little bar, imbibing some substance that’s probably slowly melting away her liver. And yet, there is no sign of her. What say you to that?” 

“Maybe she’s changing,” Bruce says weakly. “Breaking a bad habit.”

It’s at that moment that the rock-alien -- Korg -- marches back in. 

Bruce shouldn’t have been worried about missing him. He’s conspicuous -- taking no mind of his surroundings as he calls out an exuberant, “Hey, fellow on the other side of the bars! I see you’ve got a friend now, that’s nice. Who is he? Matter of fact, I never did catch your name, did I?”

A pause. At least a couple other prisoners have looked over, but they quickly go back to whatever they’d been doing, looking well-used to disregarding one another’s antics in pursuit of their own short-term pleasure.

Leader, Korg’d said before.

Bruce has the sneaking suspicion that Korg might have ended up with that position just because no one else quite cares enough to take it. This is a hedonistic planet, and apparently ‘general vibes’ win out over more typical social dynamics.

Also, they’re all going to die soon anyway.

(Fuck)

Also, probably nobody’s too keen to take instructions from their potential future killer. Easier for everyone to just take whatever instructions they want from themselves, especially if that instruction is just “have fun while you can”.

Maybe they’re all just thrown off enough by Korg’s relentless amiability that they don’t mind him declaring himself the “leader”.

Or maybe Bruce is misreading this entirely, and beneath Korg’s innocent and childlike persona is a vicious murderer.

Hard to tell, sometimes.

“Hey,” Bruce says. For possibly the fifth time in the past ten minutes. He really needs to expand his repertoire of greetings. Meanwhile, Loki bristles beside him like a particularly snarly cactus. “Did you find him?”

He doesn’t really expect Korg to say yes. Again: since when is anything this simple?

“Yes,” Korg says.

(so perfectly, utterly simple)

It takes a moment for Bruce to process the word. In that moment, Loki -- who apparently has a quicker reaction time -- speaks up. “Yes?” he repeats sharply. “Where is he, then?”

“He didn’t follow me,” Korg explains. “All I told him was that somebody was looking for him. I didn’t know your names. And he didn’t seem too interested in coming along -- he seemed kind of angry, actually -- so I left him. Sorry.”

“Well, go and get him now,” Loki orders imperiously. He hesitates briefly. “Tell him it’s Loki.”

You’d think he’d mention Bruce, especially if Thor thinks Loki’s dead, but, well. Apparently not.

“Alright,” says Korg, who apparently has no problem going out of his way to be a courier between two utter strangers.

He turns around again to go.

He doesn’t need to.

“Loki?” comes a voice, and Loki goes tense as one of Clint’s bowstrings. And, “Loki!”

Loki is deliberately not looking in the voice’s direction.

For some reason, Bruce isn’t either.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He does. It’s not that he can’t -- he can, easily, with just a small movement of his neck. But it almost doesn’t feel real. It’s like he worries that, if he looks over, the illusion will be shattered, he’ll wake up from the dream, and everything will be shitty and he’ll be alone again.

He’s been longing so desperately for someone to be here -- some friend from Earth -- and while Thor isn’t from Earth, he is a friend, and now that he’s here --

He’s here.

Logically, Bruce knows that he is.

And he wants to look over, but he’s terrified, too. Not terrified like maybe Loki is terrified, because who even knows what Loki’s unpacking right now, but terrified because he hadn’t known Thor that long to start with, and he’s been Hulk for years, and he’s changed and Thor has probably changed and also, how the fuck is Thor going to react when he realizes that Bruce is maybe sort of friends with Loki now?

Will he be happy that finally one of his teammates has seen a side of his brother that he’s been trying to explain all along?

Or were Thor’s shared memories just that: an explanation, but not an excuse, and he still thinks Loki deserves to be locked up and that teaming up with him is a betrayal and if even Bruce still sort of thinks that still --

But out of all the Avengers, isn’t Thor the most likely to see the other side of things?

Bruce looks up.

“Banner!” Thor exclaims in surprise. His eyebrows have crept up to his hairline. He’s dressed in practical plated armor and an ornamental red cape and he doesn’t look completely like his world’s been upended, which is a relief, so maybe he didn’t think Loki was dead after all. But he doesn’t look happy, either.

“Hey, Thor,” Bruce says.

“Why are you on this planet?” Thor asks. And then, without waiting for a response: “Loki, I must speak with you.”

“Yes, Thor,” Loki says. Thankfully, he doesn’t sound like he’s about to lose it. There’s even a hint of exasperation in his voice as he continues, “I assumed. Not here.”

Clearly, this kind of conversation is familiar territory.

“You must get me out of here,” Thor announces loudly. Too loudly. Korg’s stopped his retreat and is now watching from the sidelines with a bemused expression on his otherwise stony face. Bruce mentally wills him to go away. Nothing to see here, nope. “We must get back to Asgard. We cannot waste time.”

“Fortunately,” Loki says, “Time, on Sakaar, is something we don’t have to concern ourselves with.”

Thor’s furrowed brow says he doesn’t understand.

“I’ve been here for weeks,” Loki says.

“What? But I just got here.”

“Time moves differently,” Loki explains -- slowly, almost mockingly, like he’s speaking to a toddler. Bruce winces on Thor’s behalf. It isn’t like that explanation was obvious, but from the way Loki’s speaking, you’d think Thor had frowned in confusion over a statement like the sky is blue. “Seconds out there are the equivalent of days here. We have quite literally nothing but time.”

Thor’s still frowning. No longer in the I don’t understand way -- now more in an I don’t believe you way.

Which shouldn’t make Bruce irritated, but it does. And that irritation doesn’t even make sense, because obviously Thor has past experience with Loki to make distrust the logical first reaction, and yet -- because Bruce knows Loki isn’t lying, knows Loki barely wanted to help Thor in the first place, is having to force himself -- it grates.

(Even though Bruce has been guilty of exactly the same assumptipns, multiple times, in just the past few days)

(It doesn’t feel the same)

(Of course it’s the same)

Loki’s face shutters slightly, before he snaps, “We can discuss this further later on. Here is not the place nor the moment.”

“Isn’t it?” Thor is starting to look angry. There it is, Bruce thinks. For all of Thor’s virtues, he’s quick to joy and anger both, which doesn’t serve either of them well now. “When is the moment, then? When Asgard lies in ruins, when our sister sits on a throne built from the bones of our dead, when you have stalled us just long enough that there is nothing we can do --” Thor breaks off.

Korg, in the background, tilts his head in mild confusion.

Bruce is sure his mouth has fallen open in an unattractive gape.

Sister?

“Are you saying you want to go back?” Loki exclaims in what appears to be genuine shock, which isn’t exactly helping his case if he’s trying to convince Thor he isn’t stalling.

( -- about going back to confront a previously never-mentioned and murderous sister --)

That seems like a rather important piece of information to leave out of -- oh -- everything. All of their plans. Every conversation.

And it isn’t the kind of information one just forgets to mention, either.

Bruce glares daggers at the side of Loki’s head.

Upon second thought, he switches to glaring daggers at Thor, who has had a much greater amount of time spent among the Avengers as their teammate, time during which he could have maybe mentioned the fact that he has a sister, too. 

Not that who Bruce is glaring at matters. Neither Loki or Thor are paying him any attention whatsoever.

Bruce stops glaring and just watches, feeling like he’s not very important to what’s going on right now and also feeling very in over his head.

“Thor,” Loki bites out through gritted teeth. “Stop, and think. Our -- sister -- is stronger than either of us. She destroyed your hammer like a piece of glass. If you think returning to Asgard will do anything other than get you killed -- and me, for that matter --”

“Of course --” Thor starts up with a reddened complexion, but Loki cuts him off.

“There is nothing we can do.” He says each word with terrible finality.

“You would abandon our people,” Thor says, flatly, and it isn’t a question but it tilts up at the very end like maybe it wants to be.

Loki hesitates, very slightly. And then: “They’re not my people.”

“Innocents, then.” Thor’s abandoned the anger in favor of something more melancholy. Resigned. “Men, and women, and children. Despite me if you must, if that is all, in your childish resentment, that you are able to do -- but do not hate them.”

Childish resentment? Bruce thinks, the thought flitting briefly across his mind before vanishing again as he’s sucked back into the present conversation.

“I do not hate them,” Loki says. “I do not. But there’s little point in a noble sacrifice that leads to nothing.”

“Who is to say it would lead to nothing?”

Loki just looks at him, until, eventually, Thor’s eyes flick to the side in apparent discomfort.

For all Loki’s insistence that they not speak here, Bruce is starting to think that “here” might actually be the best place to speak. Aside from Korg, no one seems concerned with them, and the raucous noise the prisoners make mostly disguises the sound of Thor and Loki’s whisper-shouted conversation (whisper-shouted on Loki’s end, at least. Thor’s not making much effort to control his volume). It’s actually remarkable. Bruce wonders if this is a technique Natasha or Clint ever employs, resident spies that they are -- going to somewhere loud and crowded to exchange information, where nobody will care what they’re saying. He’s sure it probably is.

“Why is Bruce here?” Thor asks abruptly.

Bruce is startled to hear his own name brought up. He’d rather thought he’d been forgotten about.

“How am I to know?” Loki shrugs elegantly. “You’d think that you would keep better track of your own shield-brothers, instead of abandoning them on foreign planets for years at a time with nary a second glance. I only just found him; I didn’t put him here.”

“And what? He just decided to go along with your scheming?” Thor face flits through some mix of suspicion and worry and -- underneath it all, and maybe Bruce is deluding himself here -- some tremulous thing not unlike hope. 

“Is that so difficult to believe?”

Yes. Bruce still sometimes doesn’t believe it himself.

“Yes,” Thor says. Bruce winces at the bluntness of it; Loki doesn’t so much as blink.

Loki pouts theatrically. “Worry not. I haven’t harmed him. We just decided, as two reasonable people, that working together on this scrap heap was in our mutual best interest.”

“It’s true,” Bruce interjects, just to have something to say. And is that a very faint smile he sees teasing its way onto Loki’s otherwise tense, stress-laden lips?

“Loki, Bruce, you must get me out of here,” Thor says, returning to his original point with all of the tact of a rampaging bull. He looks at Loki, then: “Brother -- you may go where you wish, do as you wish. Stay here, on this depraved planet, if that is what suits you. But it costs you nothing to free me to try and save them. It costs you nothing.”

“Oh, does it?” Loki bites out. 

“It does.”

Wrong, Bruce thinks, staring as he is at the side of Loki’s face, which doesn’t really tell him anything, except for what he can guess, except for what he can extrapolate based on what he already knows, which is this: it will cost him you.

How, he thinks a bit wildly, does Thor not know that?

“I never said I would not free you,” Loki says finally. “Only that you must be patient, as foreign a concept as that must be to you. As I mentioned: the time we waste here on Sakaar is nothing. It will cost you much more time if we rush into things hot-headedly, and you get caught, because you cannot bear to wait a second longer for a better opportunity. I already have a plan to free you, you oaf.”

Oh, you have a plan, do you?

More like he had only barely conceded to follow Bruce’s.

“I can wait seconds,” Thor says. He doesn’t look the slightest bit hurt by Loki’s needling; Bruce suspects he’s probably used to it. Either that or he’s just too worried about other things to care. Worried, and -- sad? There is a distinctly melancholy air about him.

Is it about the sister? The sister they’d never mentioned -- the sister and what Thor seems to think she’ll do to Asgard? What, does crazy just run in the family?

“Yeah, by the way, you guys,” Bruce butts in, again. He feels rather silly doing it -- like a child, trying to prove their point is an important one in a grown-up conversation, and yet isn’t that almost the truth anyway? He, with his meager mortal lifespan, trying to make his voice heard among the voices of comparative immortals?

But he does have things to say, doesn’t he?

Somehow, his mortal voice, his mortal perspective, has things to offer Loki that -- somehow -- no one on Asgard had even bothered to try.

So he’s got something.

Clearly.

(So he tells himself)

“Yeah, by the way, you guys,” is what Bruce says, and Loki and Thor both turn to look at him in one identical gesture of annoyance. Bruce sees, in that moment, a resemblance he hadn’t before. “What is this about a sister?”

Thor blinks.

Yes, Thor. I am not, in fact, telepathic. I am very confused and kind of angry that you’ve never mentioned her before.

“Our elder sister,” Thor says, blinking again. “Yes. Hela. Goddess of Death.”

“Why did you never tell us?” Bruce demands.

Loki barks a harsh laugh, then says, snidely, “Oh, yes, Thor. Why didn’t you?”

Thor, brushing the jibe aside with ease, says simply, “We never knew. Our father banished her before we were born.” It’s all very matter-of-fact, from the way he describes it, only Bruce’s mind has been sent spinning, backpeddling, because wait --

(wait --)

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Loki says. He’s back to talking to Thor, back to paying Bruce virtually no attention at all. Now that Thor is in the room, it’s like Bruce doesn’t exist at all -- Loki focuses entirely on his brother, much in the same way a planet might orbit a sun. 

It makes an uncomfortable feeling squirm slightly in Bruce’s gut. He’s not sure that great of a dependency is entirely healthy, but at least it doesn’t seem one-sided -- Thor’s been behaving pretty planet-like towards Loki, also.

Still.

“Being told you’re one thing,” Loki continues, and oh, Bruce knows where this is going, and this is not the place nor time. “Then learning it’s all a fiction.”

“Hela is --” Thor begins, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice. Female. There's only one woman who has even semi-consistently been a part of this mess, so Bruce knows who she is immediately.

Finally, Bruce thinks, relief spilling through him (she’s come through after all!) == only to register what Scrapper 142 is actually saying. She’s come up behind them, pushing her way through Bruce and Loki in order to plant herself directly in front of Thor.

“Hela?” Scrapper 142’s voice is ice, and, after a beat, all of Bruce’s relief turns to ice, too. Ice and uncertainty, because she doesn’t sound confused at all -- just coldly furious.

And how does she know --

(So much for simplicity, Bruce thinks bitterly)

(He’d been a fool to hope for something so unattainable in the first place)