Chapter Text
It is not the first time.
It is not the first time, but given everything that is different, it may as well be. When last he was pregnant, it was not on Midgard and it was not with Thor’s child. And he was not yet aware of his own nature. He has blurred and distant memories of birthing the eight-legged foal Sleipnir in a wild grassy field. He remembers, as easily as if he were recalling a story told to him by another, bringing forth the long serpentine form of Jormungand from his own body, and touching the soft blood-slicked fur of Fenrir to hear the wolf-pup’s first yips, and cradling the infant Hel in his weary arms. He remembers the pain, and his own smile. That was a different age, a different place. He was so different then. But some things do not change.
Here on Midgard, knowing that the child that swells his belly is no monster but instead the offspring of his own beloved brother, he still feels the same pull calling him away. For a time he resists it; he has hidden from all others for months to keep secret his condition, and it has been simple enough to keep away from prying eyes either by deception or simple evasion. He supposes, knowing what he knows now, that perhaps this is normal among the Jotun. Perhaps they hide themselves away seeking safety and concealment in the dark of some lone cave when they prepare for the arrival of their children. Or perhaps it is just him—he has rarely been given reason to entrust his weakness to others’ hands, after all. This, he suspects, is at least part of the truth.
He thinks about many things as the child grows inside him; he has plenty of time. He thinks about his future, his past, his family, his life. He thinks about the realms he has known, and how strange it is to be on Midgard, fighting his brother and his allies at every turn. When he thinks of the Avengers, he laughs at the thought of what they (paranoid as they are) must suspect at this absence, and idly in the back of his mind he wonders whether he can turn their fears to his advantage… but later, when it is all done. He tries not to think of Thor. Will he find panic in his eyes when Thor discovers (as he must, eventually) that their most recent frantic, secret union resulted in a child? Or anger and hurt that Loki did not allow him to be there, to protect him when the time came? He wrinkles his nose at either thought. It is complicated. Thor does not do well with complicated.
As the time draws near, he finds that he wishes to spend his days in his Jotun form, and he finds that the urge to escape to safety strengthens by the hour until he cannot resist it any longer. He abandons the apartment he has been living in, bringing only money (he has learned that on Midgard, large quantities of money are almost a form of magic all their own) and a few personal items, and flees. He keeps to small towns as he goes, feeling somehow overwhelmed by cities, by the masses of humans, the sweeping height of the buildings, the roar of machines and engines. And most of all, by the funk of strange and vile odors—refuse and burnt oil and old vomit and chemical fumes—that he is suddenly sensitized to, that turn his stomach violently where once he would barely have noticed. He flees, traveling by bus and by rented vehicle and by magic and on foot, always making sure he leaves no trail (on paper or otherwise) for anyone to follow. He stops when he can wait no longer, and he pays for a month’s worth of lodging in advance, giving the woman at the desk firm instructions that he is not to be bothered for any reason. He does not realize until he sinks wearily to the bed and notices the pad of paper emblazoned with motel logo and address that he has come to the very place where Thor landed during his banishment. New Mexico. He laughs weakly at the knowledge and cranks the A/C as cold as it will go.
By the end of the next day, he has turned the room into a nest. The king-size bed is comfortably strewn with soft blankets. The television murmurs and casts icy blue light across the room (he has found that, when turned to an appropriate channel, it suits his eyes much better than the horrible fluorescent hotel lamps). There is a pile of food and drink over by the mini-fridge and microwave. A box of clean cloths and medical supplies spirited out of the closets of a nearby hospital. A basket of clothes and other things he will need for the infant—these he went out personally to acquire, amusing himself by appearing as a roundly pregnant human woman when he entered the store and receiving no undue attention for it, though he did receive a few kindly inquiries. “Soon,” he had answered with a grin.
*
He spends the next few days reclining in the nest he has made, feeling the slow depth of his breathing and the movement of the child inside him. Waiting. It is not the first time, and he is aware that each birth is different. There is a wide mirror on the wall across from the bed, next to the television, and as he eyes the blueness of his skin in the reflection he wonders if birthing will come easier in this form. He wonders if there will be pain. He hopes there will be no difficulties. He sleeps much, in preparation, though his belly has grown large enough that he can barely find a comfortable position even among the multitude of pillows and blankets. He keeps one arm protectively against his own abdomen.
When he sleeps, he drifts in and out of dreams. They are more vivid than he is used to—not since he was a child has he dreamed like this—but they are also more fleeting. He dreams of the cold dark of Jotunheim and he dreams of the flash of white light that blotted out all vision when the Bifrost was broken. He dreams of his own youth, though in those dreams sometimes, oddly, he walks as a small, hesitant Frost Giant through the halls of Asgard, frightened and alone, peering at that world of light with his red eyes. He dreams of the feel of Thor’s heated body under his own, and in these dreams he is sometimes not even certain if they begin by trying to murder each other or if it begins with his brother’s lips on his face, enthusiastic for all that he will return to denying this moment by the time it is over, and when these dreams end he practically sobs at the loss. Sometimes he also dreams of his life now, on Midgard, and in those dreams he hears the sound of his laughter, quiet and echoing, and the sound of his voice when he meets his enemies, and the feel of his own boundless, injured pride. And sometimes he dreams of the child he will have, and he dreams of what it will be, a tiny creature with ice-pale skin and an Asgardian heart, an orphan of all worlds no matter if Loki stands by its side through its life, yet a child of princes and the dearest thing he can imagine. When he wakes from these dreams he is shaking, and he cannot stop himself from padding around the small room, tweaking the curtains more tightly shut, checking the locks of both metal and magic that seal the door, splashing cold water on his face in the bathroom sink to wash away the sheen of terror-sweat.
*
One morning when he wakes he finds he is reaching for the grimy white-plastic telephone on the nightstand before he even realizes why. The wait, the anticipation, the worry—it is driving him nearly crazy, and there is no one he can talk to for reassurance. Who could he possibly trust? Few enough know his true form, fewer still know its capabilities, and those few who would not take the opportunity to harm him would still make use of the chance to humiliate him.1 But he has, without conscious thought, already chosen his confidant. Years before, when he had first fallen to Earth, he had sought out the mortals that Thor had befriended. He had meant it in malice, and he had indeed used them to his own ends on more than a few occasions, but in part it had merely been comforting—some connection to his brother when he would never again stand next to him as anything other than bitterest enemies if indeed he ever saw him again. So the number under his fingers belongs to Darcy, who was at least mostly harmless (when deprived of her taser) and seemed to take the strangest events in stride, at least after a certain amount of blubbing and blinking in confusion.
“Loki? Thor’s evil brother Loki? What… what are you doing? Why are you calling me?” She says when she answers her phone on the third ring.
They hadn’t exactly been friends. But he had never done anything specifically to harm her, and he had grown rather fond of her in his own way during their few interactions. “Please, Darcy. I must ask a favor of you. I am in need of… well, in need of company. I have no one else to whom I can turn. Will you come see me?” He hears the pleading note in his own voice, plays it up even more, hoping to tug at her heartstrings. “This is not a trick, I swear on my life. I cannot tell you why I am asking you to come, and you must promise not to inform anyone else, but I am desperate, and you are the only person who can help.”
There is silence on the other end of the line.
“And I will pay you,” he adds. There is, of course, more to it than this. He gives her a multitude of reasons as to why he would not be lying and why he is at the moment no danger to her at all and somehow convinces her of his sincerity, but he feels that the offer of money is really what does it. It is easy enough to arrange for the payment (large enough to appeal to her base desires as a starving student, small enough not to attract interest from anyone who might be looking) to arrive in her account the same day, as proof of his good faith.
He is only faintly surprised when she knocks on the door of his room sometime after nightfall.
*
1. For instance, he can do nothing but shudder at the thought of what Tony Stark would say—even the idea of the phone call does not bear considering. “I, Loki, the villain who has ruined several of your silly metal suits and even more of your evenings and interrupted your attempted seductions of your teammate with my brilliant plans at achieving world domination and general mischief, am pregnant and request your aid… Hello? Hello?."