fic: a WIP amnesty (keep it low-key)
Sup y'all.
Still alive, still bumbling around - ish. Thought I'd do one of those WIP amnesties and post something that's unlikely to ever get finished... the American Gods/Thor sequel. It doesn't have a title.
Of course Loki lights his cigarettes - dogeared, kept in a battered packet, slimline and hand-rolled - with a plastic Bic lighter that doesn’t spark very well. Of course he does. It’s tempting, looking at him, to say that he’s lost all that feline style that makes him a force of nature, but he’s still a man of taste. It’s just a different kind of taste.
He wears his hair cut close to his head and smiles with crooked yellow teeth. He grows his fingernails long and then bites them down the quick. He wears eyeliner in redneck bars to goad them into trying to beat him, and then he lets them land one hit before going to town. Psychopath chic is very tasteful, after all.
His three-piece suits are still well-tailored, but fraying at the edges, and he wears his sleeves rolled up to show scarred and scabbing slender wrists, and a tattered tie slack at the neck. Or he wears a shirt tucked into tight black jeans. Or he goes shirtless, and ties a scarf round his neck as he lounges on a street corner with his cigarette tucked behind his ear and a leer on his lips.
Everything he ever says is a lie.
Or so he says.
*
Loki started as Tony clattered up to the third storey and slammed a fist into Loki’s face before the other man had a chance to stand up or say a word, sending him crashing backwards, his head clanging off the rusted metal.
“Undercover, are we, your highness?” he snapped.
Loki, madder than before, offered him a dazed smile. “As delighted as I am to meet anyone with such spirit,” he drawled, and there was an accent there that wasn’t there before; it might have been English, or it might have been Norwegian, or it might even have been Midwestern - “why the fuck did you just hit me, kid?”
Tony scoffed. “Very clever, Loki.” Loki raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What’s your game, princess? What are you getting from,” Tony gestured to Loki, “this?”
Loki stared at him. He looked down, to the street below, where people had already lost interest in the ongoing scuffle. It’s nothing new, after all. He sighed, and then leapt up, grabbed Tony by the throat, and slammed him against the railings. “Who are you and how do you know who I am?” he growled.
Tony choked.
“Who sent you?” Loki continued, pressing down and putting his face closer to Tony’s. He stank of beer and those cigarettes and damp. “Was it Wednesday? Was it him? Was it? You tell him to get the fuck out of my business, you understand? I’m done with him. I’m done with that shit-faced rat.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tony wheezed, trying to prize Loki’s tight grip from his neck. His hands slipped on Loki’s bare, sun-warmed chest.
Loki - it had to be him, couldn’t be anyone else, surely? - cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not one of us,” he said slowly, looking Tony up and down, before pressing a finger to the centre of Tony’s forehead. “And you’re not a believer. So what’s he doing with you?”
“What?” Tony managed to rip Loki’s hand off him, but, although he wouldn’t admit it, probably only because Loki relaxed it. “Who sent what? You’re working for someone else now?”
Loki snarled. “In his sad Norse dreams.”
Tony looked at him. He’ll believe the words of Loki Liesmith some time after hell freezes over, but the other man genuinely does look confused. And it’s the first time he’s ever mentioned believers, which now that he reflects on it is odd for a god. Besides which, wouldn’t Thor have contacted them if Loki had escaped? Cautiously, massaging his neck, he took a step forward. Loki, quick as a cat, pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and held it out in front of him.
“Try it, kid,” he hissed, “it’s been a while since I had a sacrifice. Maybe we can dedicate you to him. That’ll be nice and ironic, won’t it?”
Tony held up his hands in surrender. “Loki,” he said, awkwardly, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
To his bewilderment, Loki looked at him, then sniffed the air. He took in a long breath, sticking out a tongue to taste it. It was deep red, and flicked back behind his teeth. “Who are you?” he said, finally.
“You don’t know?”
“You wanna ask again?”
“No, no, Jesus!” Tony inched his hands higher as the knife moved menacingly forward. “I’m just - I’m Tony Stark, okay? I’m Iron Man.”
*
The room was dim, lit by the small window, and it stank to high heaven of various unpleasant things. A wooden table had a half-eaten hunk of bread and a chipped mug of soup on it, which when Tony peered into it turned out to probably be borscht. A bottle of weak beer was open next to it. A TV in the corner was playing some sort of sitcom with Polish subtitles. Tony tried to think. Norse gods - they were Scandanavian, right? Did that include Poland? At any rate, currently a man and a woman seemed to be arguing over a lawnmower. Perhaps it was funnier in Polish.
Loki himself had disappeared out of the room into what was presumably a bedroom, or possibly a bathroom. Tony absent-mindedly opened the fridge. “Ugh,” he said softly. Aside from a jar of pickled gherkins, a plastic container of egg-fried rice, a box of beers and a bag of mushrooms, there wasn’t much. Tony wondered briefly if Loki was a vegetarian.
That was largely it, he realised, turning round to take in the rest of the room. He did have a poster of some mountain vista tacked up the back of the front door. Tony wandered over to it. Gamla Uppsala, said the bottom of the sheet, and then something in runes which he couldn’t read. Tony sat down, gingerly, on the battered orange sofa, and picked up the book lying there, abandoned. How To Make Friends And Influence People, he read, and then, flicking through the first pages, he found a note stuck in like a bookmark.
Much needed, it said, with love. And then, beneath it, a sigil of some kind.
“I said not to touch anything,” said Loki from behind him, entering, pulling a deep green t-shirt over his head, which Tony was privately thankful for. That much naked god was bad for the brain, particularly when you were used to the aforementioned god being buried under five miles of leather.
Tony jumped, and dropped the book. “Sorry,” he said, a little lamely.
Loki waved a hand disinterestedly. “Amateurs. She thinks she’s so funny.”
“Who does?”
“My daughter,” said Loki, dragging out the syllables with his teeth. He turned a squeaking tap and poured water into an old iron kettle. Tony’s jaw dropped slightly.
“Sorry, you have a daughter?”
Loki raised both eyebrows. “I have many children, ‘Iron Man’. Not all of them are quite so irritating. Just the ones with hands and feet.”
“Right,” said Tony, entirely lost. He watched Loki put the kettle on a gas hob, and turn on the flame with his lighter. “What’s her name?” he asked, after a while, desperate for something to say.
Loki looked at him, apparently having forgotten he was there. “Who?” he replied, busying himself with the washing up.
“Your kid.”
The god seemed surprised. “Uh, Hela,” he said, eventually. “One of four.”
“Cute.”
“Her mother’s idea.”
“Got any baby pictures?”
Loki pursed his lips. “No,” he said, apparently not finding it funny.
*
Loki poured the water into two mugs, and added loose leaf tea, stirring it round.
“No coffee?” asked Tony.
“It’s good for you,” said Loki calmly. “You’ll live longer.”
“But you live forever anyway, right?”
Loki looked at him curiously. “Whatever gives you that idea?” he asked, passing the mug to Tony. Tony inhaled. It smelt like pine trees and a hint of burning.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip, and promptly wincing. It tasted, as it turned out, like piss. Loki didn’t seem to have noticed, drinking his own with apparent relish. “So,” he said, quickly, becoming increasingly anxious to get out, “you don’t know who I am?”
“I can say that I’ve tragically never had the pleasure before,” said Loki, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Alright. Say I believe you, Liesmith - which I’m not saying I do - how come you were playing hackey-sack with me and all my friends last year, then?”
Loki shrugged. “I wasn’t. That wasn’t me.”
“Uh, yeah,” Tony said, “it was.”
“No,” Loki said, equally calmly, “it wasn’t. I’m not him.”
“I thought you were Loki.”
Loki sighed, took a sip of his tea, and pinched the bridge of his nose with grazed fingers. “This,” he said, apparently to the room in general, “is why we don’t do your people. You want everything explaining in words when they can only be explained in dreams.”
Tony laughed. “And now you’re talking the bullshit that I remember.” Loki tapped the end of his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray.
“My people,” he said, a little irritably, “were made by your people. My people change when your people need them to. And there are a thousand of me, for each of you who believed in me.”
“Your people?” Tony asked. “Asgardians?”
He shook his head. “Gods.”
Thoughts? Feelings? How are you? Let me know.
Still alive, still bumbling around - ish. Thought I'd do one of those WIP amnesties and post something that's unlikely to ever get finished... the American Gods/Thor sequel. It doesn't have a title.
Of course Loki lights his cigarettes - dogeared, kept in a battered packet, slimline and hand-rolled - with a plastic Bic lighter that doesn’t spark very well. Of course he does. It’s tempting, looking at him, to say that he’s lost all that feline style that makes him a force of nature, but he’s still a man of taste. It’s just a different kind of taste.
He wears his hair cut close to his head and smiles with crooked yellow teeth. He grows his fingernails long and then bites them down the quick. He wears eyeliner in redneck bars to goad them into trying to beat him, and then he lets them land one hit before going to town. Psychopath chic is very tasteful, after all.
His three-piece suits are still well-tailored, but fraying at the edges, and he wears his sleeves rolled up to show scarred and scabbing slender wrists, and a tattered tie slack at the neck. Or he wears a shirt tucked into tight black jeans. Or he goes shirtless, and ties a scarf round his neck as he lounges on a street corner with his cigarette tucked behind his ear and a leer on his lips.
Everything he ever says is a lie.
Or so he says.
*
Loki started as Tony clattered up to the third storey and slammed a fist into Loki’s face before the other man had a chance to stand up or say a word, sending him crashing backwards, his head clanging off the rusted metal.
“Undercover, are we, your highness?” he snapped.
Loki, madder than before, offered him a dazed smile. “As delighted as I am to meet anyone with such spirit,” he drawled, and there was an accent there that wasn’t there before; it might have been English, or it might have been Norwegian, or it might even have been Midwestern - “why the fuck did you just hit me, kid?”
Tony scoffed. “Very clever, Loki.” Loki raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What’s your game, princess? What are you getting from,” Tony gestured to Loki, “this?”
Loki stared at him. He looked down, to the street below, where people had already lost interest in the ongoing scuffle. It’s nothing new, after all. He sighed, and then leapt up, grabbed Tony by the throat, and slammed him against the railings. “Who are you and how do you know who I am?” he growled.
Tony choked.
“Who sent you?” Loki continued, pressing down and putting his face closer to Tony’s. He stank of beer and those cigarettes and damp. “Was it Wednesday? Was it him? Was it? You tell him to get the fuck out of my business, you understand? I’m done with him. I’m done with that shit-faced rat.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tony wheezed, trying to prize Loki’s tight grip from his neck. His hands slipped on Loki’s bare, sun-warmed chest.
Loki - it had to be him, couldn’t be anyone else, surely? - cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not one of us,” he said slowly, looking Tony up and down, before pressing a finger to the centre of Tony’s forehead. “And you’re not a believer. So what’s he doing with you?”
“What?” Tony managed to rip Loki’s hand off him, but, although he wouldn’t admit it, probably only because Loki relaxed it. “Who sent what? You’re working for someone else now?”
Loki snarled. “In his sad Norse dreams.”
Tony looked at him. He’ll believe the words of Loki Liesmith some time after hell freezes over, but the other man genuinely does look confused. And it’s the first time he’s ever mentioned believers, which now that he reflects on it is odd for a god. Besides which, wouldn’t Thor have contacted them if Loki had escaped? Cautiously, massaging his neck, he took a step forward. Loki, quick as a cat, pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and held it out in front of him.
“Try it, kid,” he hissed, “it’s been a while since I had a sacrifice. Maybe we can dedicate you to him. That’ll be nice and ironic, won’t it?”
Tony held up his hands in surrender. “Loki,” he said, awkwardly, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
To his bewilderment, Loki looked at him, then sniffed the air. He took in a long breath, sticking out a tongue to taste it. It was deep red, and flicked back behind his teeth. “Who are you?” he said, finally.
“You don’t know?”
“You wanna ask again?”
“No, no, Jesus!” Tony inched his hands higher as the knife moved menacingly forward. “I’m just - I’m Tony Stark, okay? I’m Iron Man.”
*
The room was dim, lit by the small window, and it stank to high heaven of various unpleasant things. A wooden table had a half-eaten hunk of bread and a chipped mug of soup on it, which when Tony peered into it turned out to probably be borscht. A bottle of weak beer was open next to it. A TV in the corner was playing some sort of sitcom with Polish subtitles. Tony tried to think. Norse gods - they were Scandanavian, right? Did that include Poland? At any rate, currently a man and a woman seemed to be arguing over a lawnmower. Perhaps it was funnier in Polish.
Loki himself had disappeared out of the room into what was presumably a bedroom, or possibly a bathroom. Tony absent-mindedly opened the fridge. “Ugh,” he said softly. Aside from a jar of pickled gherkins, a plastic container of egg-fried rice, a box of beers and a bag of mushrooms, there wasn’t much. Tony wondered briefly if Loki was a vegetarian.
That was largely it, he realised, turning round to take in the rest of the room. He did have a poster of some mountain vista tacked up the back of the front door. Tony wandered over to it. Gamla Uppsala, said the bottom of the sheet, and then something in runes which he couldn’t read. Tony sat down, gingerly, on the battered orange sofa, and picked up the book lying there, abandoned. How To Make Friends And Influence People, he read, and then, flicking through the first pages, he found a note stuck in like a bookmark.
Much needed, it said, with love. And then, beneath it, a sigil of some kind.
“I said not to touch anything,” said Loki from behind him, entering, pulling a deep green t-shirt over his head, which Tony was privately thankful for. That much naked god was bad for the brain, particularly when you were used to the aforementioned god being buried under five miles of leather.
Tony jumped, and dropped the book. “Sorry,” he said, a little lamely.
Loki waved a hand disinterestedly. “Amateurs. She thinks she’s so funny.”
“Who does?”
“My daughter,” said Loki, dragging out the syllables with his teeth. He turned a squeaking tap and poured water into an old iron kettle. Tony’s jaw dropped slightly.
“Sorry, you have a daughter?”
Loki raised both eyebrows. “I have many children, ‘Iron Man’. Not all of them are quite so irritating. Just the ones with hands and feet.”
“Right,” said Tony, entirely lost. He watched Loki put the kettle on a gas hob, and turn on the flame with his lighter. “What’s her name?” he asked, after a while, desperate for something to say.
Loki looked at him, apparently having forgotten he was there. “Who?” he replied, busying himself with the washing up.
“Your kid.”
The god seemed surprised. “Uh, Hela,” he said, eventually. “One of four.”
“Cute.”
“Her mother’s idea.”
“Got any baby pictures?”
Loki pursed his lips. “No,” he said, apparently not finding it funny.
*
Loki poured the water into two mugs, and added loose leaf tea, stirring it round.
“No coffee?” asked Tony.
“It’s good for you,” said Loki calmly. “You’ll live longer.”
“But you live forever anyway, right?”
Loki looked at him curiously. “Whatever gives you that idea?” he asked, passing the mug to Tony. Tony inhaled. It smelt like pine trees and a hint of burning.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip, and promptly wincing. It tasted, as it turned out, like piss. Loki didn’t seem to have noticed, drinking his own with apparent relish. “So,” he said, quickly, becoming increasingly anxious to get out, “you don’t know who I am?”
“I can say that I’ve tragically never had the pleasure before,” said Loki, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Alright. Say I believe you, Liesmith - which I’m not saying I do - how come you were playing hackey-sack with me and all my friends last year, then?”
Loki shrugged. “I wasn’t. That wasn’t me.”
“Uh, yeah,” Tony said, “it was.”
“No,” Loki said, equally calmly, “it wasn’t. I’m not him.”
“I thought you were Loki.”
Loki sighed, took a sip of his tea, and pinched the bridge of his nose with grazed fingers. “This,” he said, apparently to the room in general, “is why we don’t do your people. You want everything explaining in words when they can only be explained in dreams.”
Tony laughed. “And now you’re talking the bullshit that I remember.” Loki tapped the end of his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray.
“My people,” he said, a little irritably, “were made by your people. My people change when your people need them to. And there are a thousand of me, for each of you who believed in me.”
“Your people?” Tony asked. “Asgardians?”
He shook his head. “Gods.”
Thoughts? Feelings? How are you? Let me know.