iv. dandelions

For a long time, Loki feels nothing.

He remembers bits and pieces, hazy fragments that are alternately sightless and soundless, but time is skewed and he can't discern the present from the past. Sometimes the future seeps in as well, like tendrils of smoke that whisper a promise of fire. The heat of things not yet to come licks and nips at his shoulders, teasing and tormenting and burning his skin, but still he does not feel – not really.

Then there's a face that's not his, a voice other than his own, and he realizes for the first time a deep loneliness in his chest. It aches. The other pains come swiftly after and the shock of all his deficiencies reminds him of how this prison came to be. (Because freedom from flesh and feeling is its own sort of enslavement, a kind without walls and so much harder to escape.)

"Why is it so dark?"

It is dark, isn't it? Darker than dark and blacker than black. His throat contorts and he thinks he might be choking but he's not, only speaking, but soon even that suffocates and the nothingness is back and the feeling is gone and there are memories and injuries driving splinters into his eyes and under his nails but they aren't his and everything is blurring together in a slow whirlwind of heart beating, blood pumping, god oh god light surging melting gushing pushing pulsing hurting hushing creaking bendingbendingbendingBREAKIN GSNAP

Clarity.

Loki opens his eyes.

He's standing in a field flecked with wildflowers that look like little bursting suns. Dandelions, his mind supplies. They're Midgardian, which is strange, because the mortal realm has never before been his sanctuary. Yet here he is.

He lets that breathe for a long moment, hanging untouched in the soft breeze.

Here he is.

Never before has existing been such a relief.

I've retreated into my mind, he thinks, and it's his first coherent thought in…in quite a while. My magic's nearly gone. My body must be mending. Slowly.

He can almost feel it even from all the way in here. No. Wait. That sleepy throb doesn't belong to him at all. It belongs to the other face and voice, the one that briefly shot itself through the numbness and drummed fingers on his spine, made him feel resentment and relief.

Who?

Oh. That's right.

It's the Iron Man. Tony Stark.

And, speak of the devil (somehow that seems ironic), here he is, blinking into being, neither sudden nor soft, just as though he's been there all along but forgotten for a spell.

At first Loki is curious, but anger quickly floods in and takes its rightful throne. How dare this sniveling worm come crawling into his sanctuary uninvited? How dare he invade the sacred privacy of a god's mind? How dare he?

"Well, well," he says, because brute force was always Thor's forte, "Back so soon? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like it in my head."

"Your head?" the mortal replies. "Uh, I'm pretty sure the one waltzing around in other people's thought bubbles is you."

Maybe it's a sign of how extraordinarily weary Loki is, but suddenly he doubts. It's not a feeling he likes.

But why would the mortal say it if he didn't believe it? He's wrong, of course. But how would a mortal find his way into a god's dream? He is friends with Thor. Perhaps they could manage it, on purpose or by mistake. But the dandelions – what are dandelions?

"But why would I be in your mind?" he says aloud, still caught between cold, certain fury and sickening 'if's. "How could a pathetic mortal like you possibly be capable of housing my consciousness?" No. It's not possible. He feels sure of it now. "It's the other way around, Stark. Now get out of my dream."

And then Loki gathers up the shredded remains of his magic and pushes with all the strength left in his mind. The mortal gives way beneath the force of his power and quiet solitude takes his place.