Fandom/Pairing: Thor/X-Men: First Class Crossover - Erik/Loki, hints of Charles/Erik and Loki/Thor
Author:onyxexistance / openmoments
Word Count: 2, 318
Summary: Loki falls from heaven, like the broken angel Erik needed.
Disclaimers: If I owned this, I clearly would not be writing fanfic. I would be way too busy admiring Hiddles's cheekbones up close and personal to write this.
Prompt: None. (Unless you count zed_pm 's never ending begging for fic about these two + angst a prompt)
Author's Notes: Written for the one, the only, the magnificant zed_pm is, without doubt, the biggest Hiddlestoner that ever Hiddlestoned, who has put up with me through my sickness, who has lovingly fed my love for everything Hiddles and Fassy and Cumberbatch and James and is basially kind of my soulmate. ....THIS IS FOR YOU, BB! ♥ ♥
The thing is, they were never supposed to meet. Destiny could never have meant for the two of them to stumble upon each other. It couldn’t have. It would have known that such a meeting, such a collision of people, would only be catastrophic.
But, sometimes, Destiny, sometimes, Fate, doesn’t get to have the final say in what does and doesn’t happen. Sometimes, that’s shoved aside, ripped apart, torn asunder for what should happen, for what, despite the odds, was meant to happen.
He was the elder of the two. Tall. Dark. Accented. Part German. Part Jewish. Travelled. He was supposedly perfect. The entire world said so, even as he nursed his bruised and battered heart with German beer in his darkened living room, staring at the cold chess board bathed in moonlight.
Smiling? He hadn’t smiled in months. (Years was it at this point? Who knew, now.) What was there to smile about? he had to ask himself. (Really, he was smart enough to know where this was headed. He’d had this conversation a million times before in his head. He knew he’d have it a million times more before it was all over.)
He wasn’t from this planet. Couldn’t be. Ethereal and almost...delicate in appearance. Stoic. The air around him chilled as he moved, as if it was even scared of his presence. Not quiet, solemn. Everything about him emphasized. Stressed.
Their meeting was accidental. Utterly and completely, against anything the gods could ever have planned. Angelic in his falling, Loki was the opposite in his demeanor. A trickster god, he called himself, the trickster god. Pale in the middle of the field as Erik took his ritualistic midnight sleepless walk. White against the snow, cheeks coloured blue, lips purpling at the edges.
It was the first time in ages (months? years? decades?) that Erik had taken care of someone else. Had wanted to take care of someone else, as he brushed slowly melting flakes from the stranger’s face, eyelashes jet black and mesmerizing.
Two destructive natures fitted together would only serve to further eliminate everything of good in their path. Maybe it would take awhile, maybe the effects weren’t apparent at first, only after could the destruction be viewed, and only while looking back on it. (They would never see what the total damage was, not even the gods could allow that indecency to befall them.)
When he woke up, the first sensation he had was of being warm. For the first time in so long, warm. Covered. Heavy. Blankets. Consciousness wasn’t there, not quite, but he could feel it, the edges of it touching him, teasing him, when all he wanted to do was slip black into the oblivious he had been hoping for as he slipped from Odin’s grasp (Odin, it was now, not father like it once was).
He slipped back into the darkness, letting the light that called him dim, go out. Time passed and he floated. Out, up, weightless. He was conscious of his split consciousness. His physical body prone on the couch, slight shivers wracking his body, even under the warmth of the blanket. His spiritual body was warm, comfortable, hovering.
How he knew something was wrong, he would never be able to explain (not that anyone ever asked him, Loki certainly didn’t.). His feet carried him and he was slapping the snow white face, praying that blood would start flowing, that he’d feel the heart beating against his first two fingers, pressed prayerfully against that slim neck.
Mouth to mouth. Recitation. Breathe. Breathing. In. Out. Again. Again. Check. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Finally, coughing, spitting, eyes wide open, red flaming up his cheeks, Erik backed up, moved lightning speed, hit the coffee table, rocked the chess pieces (in that instant he prayed they’d fall, a shrine kept too long), and landed, haphazardly in the wing backed chair.
He didn’t need Charles’s ability (the one he had blocked out, couldn’t look him in the eyes for so long, so long.) to know what was going on. The thoughts bouncing around the stranger’s eyes said enough. He couldn’t look away, the look mesmerized him. The look of utter lostness, of need, of fear. He knew every inch of the feeling, had worn it for so long he knew where it folded, where the creases were, where patches had worn thin. Oh, he knew it.
There was a silence hanging, heavy, as they got caught up in a sudden battle of wills, eyes locking as the stranger stayed propped, one elbow supporting him, the blanket (one he’d forgotten Charles had left) slipping so close to low.
Neither gave up and neither won, just left the battle for another time, when they could decide if they truly wanted to win. The quiet settled into the cracks of cold indifference in the room and Erik finally spoke, throat cleared, “What’s your name?” and the words seemed heavy in the cold room.
“Loki,” and his voice was as cold and biting as his appearance, which was, thankfully, starting to warm up.
Silence once again descended on the room, the late afternoon light falling through the big picture windows, making Erik stop and wonder at how much time had passed since he’d found him, found Loki (even his name whispered the promise of change, not good, couldn’t be, but change.)
He knew that protocol, being a host, fuck, being human (but he wasn’t, was he?) called him to offer something. Food. A bed. Information. He would ask questions, find him clothes (clothes, for godssakes! He hadn’t even done that. Charles would have already. Charles would have....and the thought stopped, and he shook his head, no.), be polite. He hadn’t been, he knew that. As he looked at the stranger (who was looking at him with the same expression on his face) he knew that he didn’t care. He was alright with laying down, snow white chest exposed, long, midnight dark hair falling around his shoulders, the arm rest of the couch.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there. No words had been spoken in....hours. (They didn’t need to be. He’d known what the stranger in front of him was thinking. The reflection of loss mirrored his own. Mirrored every sleepless night he’d had since he fell (the parallel of a broken angel came to mind and the almost sob that bounced between his ribs made him look skyward, “Our father, who art in heaven.” Not anymore. Not ever again.))
The silence was good. Someone there was good. Even if it was a stranger, someone as fucking broken, as used as he was. Beyond repair almost swamped his mind, but that wasn’t true. That would never be true. He would make sure of that.
Time continued to pass, the setting of the sun setting the stranger opposite him in a glow of burning light, (who, despite having asked his name, had not returned the favour), who’s hands were clasped together, steepled under his chin, dark turtleneck stretched tight over wide shoulders, eyes studying him as if he was...interesting. (He’d call it possessive, but that was too much giving too soon. He didn’t know if he’d ever....if he’d ever be alright with that. No. Not for a long time.)
He thought that, at some point, the spell would break, they’d get up, he’d ask about food, his voice quiet, not wanting to step on toes while his host would bring
clothes from some secret closet, all of them warm, thick, dark (the secret hope that they’d be his was shoved back down to sleep with his toes as he cursed himself. Always was. Always would be. Cursed.)
But it held on. The sun finished its setting. The moon quietly said hello and cast it’s cold stare on the frozen hills that could be seen outside the windows. He slipped back into sleep at this point, felt the warm, calloused hands tucking him in (he almost felt himself smile in his sleep), letting him know that he wasn’t alone.
Coffee was the first order of his day. A strong cup just as the sun was rising made him feel like he could blend in with the rest of the world’s population (oh, what a joke). He took his cup and poured one more, ignoring his cup, pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard. (Even after all the time that had passed, he still made enough coffee for two. Even after...)
The living room felt so much more welcoming during the day, the sun opening it up, dispelling all the shadows, pushing them away until darkness came once more, such a vicious cycle. He wasn’t surprised that Loki was already up (two syllables. First step, tongue on teeth. Second step, almost a grin, almost.), standing at the middle window, blanket pulled tight across his thin shoulders, looking out over the frozen fields behind the house (the because it wasn’t his, it would never be). He stood for a moment, admiring the picture it made before clearing his throat, a small glimmer of pride at the small twitch his guest made at knowing he was being watched.
Coffee was offered and received and, “Erik. Erik Lensherr,” at the almost whispered question at his name and he had the wonder at the tone. The voice didn’t match the man and he had to wonder who had taken his voice from him. Duration of stay didn’t come up and he didn’t want it to. He knew that, unless Loki left of his own accord, as it stood, he wouldn’t ask him to leave. He couldn’t. His quota had been used up for throwing people out of his life and he knew that this was his last chance, a blessing from whatever gods existed in the heavens, to redeem himself, to make up for all the ones he’d thrown out before.
Cups in the sink, clothes, a room on the second floor, a tour of the house, few words as possible, Loki a silent ghost behind him, trailing. Lunch. Supper. He practiced patience and taught checkers (the chess pieces hadn’t fallen over, a shrine still erected for an unfinished game). Tea. Bed. And the first day ended.
He stood in his room (no, not his, the), observing. Or pretending to. Sleep was pulling his eyelids south, the gritty feeling of needing sleep scratching his eyes.
“Erik. Erik Lensherr.” The trickster god kept replaying how he said it, eyes averted, out the window, into his coffee cup, finally to his face.
He finally settled on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, allowed the question to enter, “What am I doing here?”
Revenge had been his motivation, had allowed his hand to slip, let him plummet, broke his fall. But now...now he wasn’t so sure. Was it worth giving up everything he had ever known for...for what? For revenge? For power? Was it really so important? Thor had been their golden son, their chosen one, but he had never been neglected, his mother’s chosen son, his brother’s keeper (“You and I against the realms,” Thor whispered into his ear as they stood on the highest turret of the castle, “You and I.”).
Now? Now who did he have? (“Erik. Erik Lensherr.”) The bed creaked as he lay down, eyes melded to the ceiling, trying to see past it all: past the roof, the skies, the heavens, the stars. Past the broken Biofrost, the turrets of Asgard, the guards. Past all the things that didn’t matter and into his house, his home. But he couldn’t, could he? No, he gave up that right. With a slip of fingers, a rage, a jealousy too big for him to contain, one that ravaged his brother’s heart, and tore his from his chest.
He turned, tucked his hand under his head, other on his arm, stared at the glowing moon. But who was right? He managed a dry laugh. Right, wrong. Did it matter now? Everything they’d ever known, a lie built upon a lie built upon several. (Was love ever a lie? Was there a reason to lie? To protect? The excuses...Where did it end?)
Inner reflection was never a thing he did lightly, a thing he did often. But now...now it was necessary. The pokes and prods inside hurt and he bit his lip, stifling a cry that came with the poking, the seeking, the searching, the pulling of broken fragments from flesh, even the flesh of a god.
Without Odin, he’d never have been the dark prince he’d been. The glimpse, the promise, the smell of power would never have been his to lust after. His mother would never have been his (and she was, she was his mother). And Thor....that was the greatest double edged sword he’d ever wield, he’d ever have to face, he’d ever have to contend with. The brother who’d been his brother, his protector, his guide. The one who’d taught him what power a smile held and the secret of a good joke. The one who taught him some people are born under lucky stars and others aren’t (but wasn’t he?). Fair and just and slightly more than a little self centered, but golden hearted, golden haired, golden.
He didn’t realize he was crying until the sweater Erik had given him felt damp. He felt more human than he thought a god could, should. But he was past caring. Just for now, just this once, he’d allow this, this weakness, this funeral, this final goodbye. Just this once.
The moon watched as he fell asleep, the ghost of a lonely boy projected onto the bed, shaking in his sleep. His dreams were dark, ice cold, Frost Giant infected (like he was), and then.
“Erik. Erik Lensherr.” Hallowed be thy name.