Hidden Troubles

Chapter 19

"Race me to the hills, brother?" Thor grinned, letting his horse tap proudly on the ground.

"I'd rather not." Loki rolled his eyes. "That would be a waste of energy for the horse."

"Suit yourself, do not yell at me if you are left behind!" Thor laughed as he made his horse run as fast as he could, without a doubt, Loki accepted the challenge and fought him in the race.

"Is that the best you can do?" Loki chuckled as his horse was gaining speed.

"Ahahaha!" Thor enjoyed their journey.

Electric blue eyes were greeted by the warm morning sunlight when they opened, yet the welcoming, warm weather could not melt the cold guilt he felt inside. He looked towards the closed door of his brother's chambers, and wondered what it would take to get back the Loki that haunted his dreams.

***

Loki's hands were pressed against the glass, knees shaking slightly from supporting his weight as he watched the streets below him from the window just above his bed. It amazed him, frankly, that he could see the outside world in all its bustling chaos and unpredictability. Loki knew he had more freedoms than any other prisoner, even by Midgardian standards, and yet all he could think of as he pressed against that thin barrier between him and freedom was a cage. This tower, this castle of sorts, was no different than imprisonment. He hadn't known fresh air in so long, and he wasn't sure as to whether it was himself or the Avengers imprisoning him.

He felt his mind suffocate at the sudden claustrophobic thought. He felt all the walls squeeze his body until his lungs sputtered for air. His skin felt too tight, his clothes too stiff, his room too daunting. He could hardly walk a hundred meters away from his door, whether it be because there was nowhere further he could go or because his legs refused to bring him further. He was a baby kept under watch, a disciplined child, a beast kept on a leash, and he wanted out.

He forced himself to tear his gaze away from the window. He hated himself. Truly. He hated his physical weakness, how he couldn't no longer stand for more than a few minutes, walk only from his bed to the door without collapsing. He had been sent to some sort of physical therapy by the two mortal doctors, to "build up your muscles so you'll be as big and strong as the Hulk", but every session seemed to just tire him out more.

He hated his mental weakness- that was the most damning. He could only find solace in consuming fruits and vegetables, and often Thor would watch him eat his meals. They'd grown in size, and he could tell that he'd grown in weight too; he felt uncomfortably heavier, the unwanted fat accumulating around his limbs, destroying all the hard work of the last few months. He hated how easily he submitted to his thoughts at night, raging like a untamed hurricane. He hated everything.

"You look cheerful." Ah. The balm to his suffering. He found he would recognise her voice anywhere.

You again? his emerald eyes seemed to say. Rather than looking more bothered and annoyed at her presence, he looked almost happy. Eager. Like a child trying not to look too happy at a present they'd just received.

"Good to see you too, Loki," Natasha said, plopping down on her chair, placing her bag at the end of her bed. The god's knees seemed to finally collapse from supporting his weight, and instead he fell onto the thick mattress, lifting the duvet up to his lap, covering his crossed legs.

"Did you enjoy the view?"

"It's most peculiar," Loki began, turning his gaze away from hers to focus on his fidgeting fingers.

"What is?" This time Loki did not answer, and an irrepressible surge of frustration coursed through her. Getting people to talk was her greatest talent- preying on their weaknesses, their predictable doubts.

(whispering words to inhibit any sense of certainty of anything, igniting the fear that only required the sight of a single spark, a sick euphoric feeling as she was presented with another article of a man of importance that had died in acclaimed "mysterious circumstances", and the mistress praising her, because see girls look how our little Romanova grows ;she was indestructible royalty, a queen at her game, far superior to the Tsarist Romanovs that had been executed for their failed reign- she would not fail-)

And yet here she was, with failed attempts at extracting information from a man who loved to hear the sound of his own voice (or was that once loved to?) . A man who was so mentally weak he ought to have been easy to extract words from, and now it seemed as though he'd taken a nun's vow of silence.

She didn't realize that he was reaching toward her bag until she felt it shift from the side of her chair onto the bed. Like a mischievous kitten, Loki tugged her messenger bag onto his lap and dumped the contents onto the bed. Her pepper spray, her keys, her bathroom necessities, and everything else fell onto the covers.

"Hey, stop that," she said, reaching out to take the bag from him. He whipped it away with a glint in his eye.

She shot him a look of incredulity. Was this his way of retaliation?

Thankfully, her personal belongings did not seem to spark his interest, as he disregarded her tampons and pepper spray. He reached for the small book within the pile. She pretended to shift uncomfortably in her seat, which immediately caught his eye. Brushing the messenger bag back onto the ground, he picked it up deliberately and held it tightly to his chest.

Mine.

She would have laughed out loud if it wouldn't have broken her façade of indignation. "I was going to give that back to Bruce," she said sharply. "You can't have it."

His fingers tightened their hold on the small book. Were all Norse deities so childlike?

"Come on, hand it over," she said, holding out her hand.

He placed her pile of tampons into her palm. She couldn't help but snort.

"Seriously," she said. "No time for games."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You can ask Bruce for it if you want it," she said.

That did it. He turned to the first page and immediately began reading, as if nothing could stop him.

"You brat," she said, sweeping the rest of her possessions back into the bag. She could have sworn she saw him smirk behind the pages. "By the time I come back, you better be finished and ready to give it over."

He didn't look up from the pages, so he didn't see her break into a grin as she left the room.

She reckoned a nice dosage of Macbeth ought to get her message through him.