Avengers/Norse Mythology: ABMTW: To Live Is Not the Easy Choice

Originally Posted: 18 December 2012
AO3 | DW

“Every test that can be run without him awake and able to speak says he’s Phil Coulson.” That’s Banner, calm and collected.

“Great. Then let’s wake him up and ask a few questions.” The quick, almost clipped words belong to Stark. “Before Fury decides to stop trying to hack JARVIS from a distance.”

“I’m supposed to be dead.” It isn’t a question, as he watches his own body in the hospital bed, wired to machines that monitor it and keep it alive. He doesn’t want to be dead, he still wanted to live, but he wasn’t certain if his body could manage to keep up with him.

“I don’t actually know.” The woman who’s been keeping him company for the last several – hours? days? weeks? – doesn’t move from where she’s comfortably settled on the padded bench under the window that was wide enough to be used as a bed. She looks, at first glance, to be a nurse, perhaps. It’s enough to keep most people, even the SHIELD agents who should know better, from coming into the room. “Father was very careful with that wound. Whether you die or not is really entirely up to you.”

Silence falls again, and Phil continues to watch his own body, trapped there in a hospital bed. He doesn’t like the idea of being there, but he likes the idea of being dead even less. “Are we actually in the hospital, or is this just an illusion to keep me from panicking while somewhere less familiar?”

“Yes, and no.” She’s maddeningly evasive, a talent he can appreciate, it being one he’s cultivated himself. At least with anyone who doesn’t need to know details. He did catch her reference to Loki earlier, and it makes identifying her as Hel fairly easy. What he’s not certain of is why there’d been a split-second of fury when she mentioned her father.

Phil frowns, studying the swath of bandages that encases his chest. He’s not entirely certain what she meant by ‘careful’ when she said Loki had been careful with the wound. He’d been fairly certain Loki meant to kill him – although perhaps not immediately, wanting an audience for what he did with Thor. Which would mean Phil is supposed to be dead, but is somehow not. Or at least, refuses to admit to being dead, which amounts to the same thing at the moment.

“If I chose to live, do I stay here until my body can actually maintain function without the machines?” Phil looks back over at Hel, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t know how these things go, never having come this close to death before. Not so close that he actually came face-to-face with a personification of death.

“I am not a personification of death. I am a ruler of the dead.” Hel corrects his thoughts with a gentle smile that is perhaps more terrifying than even a glimpse of her rage. “And I already told you, whether you live or die is entirely your choice.”

He frowns, studying her for a long moment, still not entirely certain what is happening. There’s a gleam of mischief and feral glee in her eyes a moment, and she stands to come over to him. As if he’s made a decision, even if he hasn’t voiced it aloud.

“The All-Father will not be happy with your choice. Do continue to irritate him, mortal. It pleases me.”

He wakes disoriented and gasping for breath, uncertain where he is, or even who he is. All he is certain of is that he is cold and wet and there is grass beneath his cheek and dirt under his nails. It takes long minutes for him to remember how to move, and lift his head.

Ah. His name.

He was dead.

Hel lied to him, but didn’t, at the same time. He’s not sure how to take that, or how he’s come to be sprawled on top of his own grave, thankfully dressed in a suit, even if that suit stinks of decay and feels wrong against his skin. Phil wonders how long it will take for SHIELD to show up and bundle him out of sight.

It takes him several more minutes to manage to drag himself so he’s leaning against his headstone, panting and exhausted. Apparently being dead is bad for muscle tone and coordination. At least SHIELD won’t have a hard time getting him to cooperate, at least physically. He’s not certain he’s willing to tell them how he returned, even if he were certain himself.

Phil doesn’t expect the first person to show up to be Tony Stark in his Iron Man suit. Or for him to demand what the hell he thinks he’s doing, pretending to be Phil. It makes him laugh, though the sound is weak and rough. Death isn’t good for vocal cords, either. He’ll have to remember that for next time.

Natasha and Rogers arrive next, both looking like they’re expecting someone else. Possibly Loki, depending on how well they’ve gotten a grip on tracking the magic of that particular Norse deity. He wants to ask where Banner is, to ask where Clint is – if Clint managed to get free of Loki – but his voice doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with him.

Although at least that sort of struggle makes them look at him with a little less caution and a little more concern. He isn’t sure if he wants to scold them for it, or thank them for it. He was, after all, dead. They’d buried him, probably had a memorial service with few people and an interrment with fewer. He’d be wary of someone who appeared to be him showing up after that, even if that person was sitting on his grave looking freshly dug-up.

He doesn’t have much chance to decide if he really wants to do anything, though, before Rogers scoops him up, carefully, arguing with Stark about where to take him. Natasha speaks once, a sharp few words that weighing in on Stark’s insistance they take him back to Stark’s tower. Phil’s not sure why she wants that, but she looks over at him, and there’s a moment of vulnerability in her eyes that she allows him to see behind the mask.

She hopes, at least, that he really is who he appears to be, and she isn’t going to let SHIELD poke and prod him unless she becomes convinced he isn’t.

“Clint will be back as soon as he gets a flight out from Missoula.” Her words are a balm to his mind that he hadn’t been quite aware he needed, and Phil relaxes a bit against Rogers. If Clint’s coming back from a vacation – more likely, a mandatory stand-down – than he got out from under Loki’s hold. That’s all Phil needs.

The next while is a blur of movement and loud voices and lights. He may have come back from the dead, but he suspects he’s closer to being dead again than he’d like to know. Perhaps whatever Hel did could only do so much, and needs the support of other work to finish the job. He’s not sure, not when his thoughts seem more disjointed than not.

A pinch at the inside of his elbow is the last thing he remembers before darkness clouds his mind.

This time, he’s not watching himself, at least, though he’s not certain if he’s dreaming or this is something else. Hel is sitting beside the bed he’s in, in a room that looks more like a very nice hotel room with some medical equipment rather than a hospital room. Which means he’s probably on one of Stark’s properties rather than in SHIELD’s custody.

“Does anyone other than me see you?” The fact that he can ask that question probably answers his earlier question of dreaming or awake – awake, he’s probably still as wordless as he was earlier. “Never mind.”

Hel smiles, an amused expression that fades readily back into something more curious and measuring. “It is not an easy path, what you have chosen. Few would do so – few have done so. The All-Father doesn’t like it when any do.”

“Why?” All-Father has to be Odin, and he remembers she commanded – asked? suggested? – he irritate the god by his choices. Though why Odin should be concerned with one mortal among many, Phil isn’t entirely certain.

“What means mortality when a mortal does not die?” Hel asks, instead of giving him a straight answer. Not that Phil is surprised by that, as she hasn’t given him a straight answer to any question he’s asked her. He suspects she’s very much like Loki in that regard.

It takes him a moment to sit up, but not nearly as long as it had taken for him to drag himself upright in the graveyard. Very much not awake, then, and therefor not bound by the limitations of his physical condition.

“Do you give everyone this choice?”

“Does everyone wish so greatly to live, or do they merely fear to die?” Eyes that are a murky color Phil can’t quite pinpoint watch him, pale lips curve in a smile that conveys only micheivous amusement. She isn’t going to answer that question, either, though her questions in return do give him something to think about, at least. Which, if he can’t move, is better than doing nothing.

“Why bother coming to me now? I’ve already made the choice to live.” He wants to live, and he’s not going to let her take that choice away from him.

Hel shrugs, her smile simply widening. Watching him, as if he’s something fascinating that she hasn’t figured out – any more than he’s been able to figure out her.

Silence dominates the room for an indefinate period of time before it begins to fade around the edges. Pain and a lassitude he doesn’t quite recognize tugging at him until he falls back against the pillows, closing his eyes. Listening to the noises around him as a jumble of voices impinges on his awareness. Wakefulness returning, and the weakness of a body that doesn’t know what to do with its returned life.

“Phil was dead, we buried him!” That’s Rogers, insistant and confused at the same time. Not any more sure of what to make of this than Phil himself. “Are you sure this isn’t a trick of Loki’s?”

Phil is sure this isn’t a trick, though Loki is tangentially involved in some ways. The murderer, and the father of the goddess who had brought Phil back. At least, he thinks Hel brought him back, though something in her words makes him wonder if it’s her doing, or something else.

“Every test that can be run without him awake and able to speak says he’s Phil Coulson.” That’s Banner, calm and collected. He must have remained at Stark Tower while the other three went out. Or he had been elsewhere, and flown in. Phil can’t be certain without access to SHIELD records. He thinks.

“Great. Then let’s wake him up and ask a few questions.” The quick, almost clipped words belong to Stark, and Phil can picture him standing there in a t-shirt and jeans, with a glass of something in hand. “Before Fury decides to stop trying to hack JARVIS from a distance.”

That is something Phil can imagine Fury doing. He doesn’t know how long his former boss has been holding back his need to know what was found, or how much longer he’ll refrain from just bullying into the Tower with brute force if necessary.

“I don’t know how long it will be before he’s capable of speech.” Banner sounds tired, but patient. “I’m not even sure what to make of some of the test results. He is Phil Coulson, but there are metabolites and markers in his blood that I don’t know how to interpret. They may be the result of having been dead, but there’s no sign of any embalming solution in his blood or tissue samples, or metabolites from that. And they’re not like some of the markers in the blood we were able to collect from what Loki left behind, either.”

“What about Thor?” Rogers, sounding almost as tired as Banner for a moment. “Or me?”

“Nothing like the markers the serum left in your blood, no.” There’s that much, at least, though Phil isn’t expecting them to find anything like Rogers or Banner in his blood. “And I don’t have any base references for Thor. He wasn’t willing to give any blood to check, and I doubt even after this he’ll be willing to do so.”

There’s a sigh Phil can’t actually identify, and the quiet sounds of fabric shifting – probably the three men shifting their weight around. Tired, and out of answers well before they’re out of questions, and he doesn’t have anything to add, even if he were sure he could speak.

“Do you think he will be capable of speaking again?” Natasha is speaking, and Phil realizes she’s far closer to him than any of the other three, probably right next to the bed. He wonders how long she’s been watching him, and if she’s figured out he’s awake now.

“There are no obvious physical issues which would prevent him from doing so, though I won’t rule out brain damage at the moment. Or any psychological trauma that might prevent him from speaking right away.” Banner lets out a sigh. “I hope he’s able to speak once he’s awake again, and we can get some water into him.”

A hand touches his forehead lightly, before moving to his shoulder, the same light touch, then down to pick up his hand. Natasha reassuring herself that he’s real, he’s here, and giving him the same reassurance about her. He’s not sure what to make of it. She’s never been quite so demonstrative, especially not in front of others, in the past. Not with him, anyway.

“He’s awake right now. I don’t know why he’s pretending otherwise.” She can, though, still read him well enough. As well as he hopes he reads her.

He tries to squeeze her hand, though it’s weak, and struggles to open his eyes to look at her. It takes longer than he likes to think, and there’s a frown of concern on her face. An expression that’s more open than he expects, at least for a moment before she pulls the masks back on, and hides behind them.

A moment later, and Banner’s face appears above him, holding a pen-light that he uses to check Phil’s pupils. Banner doesn’t hide his concern nearly as well, though once he’s satisfied at whatever he’s checking, he helps to sit Phil up, raising the bed, and piling pillows behind Phil to keep him upright. He’s not sure he’d be able to do so otherwise.

Stark and Rogers are standing at the end of the bed, watching him. Rogers with a mix of wariness, pain, and cautious hope, Stark with a sardonic mask that is probably hiding much the same set of emotions. Phil isn’t as good at reading Stark as he’d like, but that’s never been his job, not for very long.

He frowns slightly, wondering where Clint is, and turns his head to look at Natasha, swallowing to try and wet his throat. A small smile quirks her lips and she looks over his head at Banner, who hands her a cup of water a moment later. The liquid is cool going down his throat, relief and a hope that he’ll be able to speak, as Banner had mentioned a few moments ago.

“Barton?” It’s rough, almost a croak, and he grimaces at the sound. He’d barely understood his own question, and he’d known exactly what he was asking.

“On a plane.” Natasha holds the cup to his lips again, encouraging him to drink more of the water. Even if they gave him fluids through the IV he can see in his arm, he knows it’s necessary to get some in the normal way. Just a bit, for now, to start getting his stomach used to having something in it again.

He closes his eyes a moment, both acknowledgement of Natasha’s answer, and a bit of creeping exhaustion that’s come on faster than he’s expected. How long is it going to take him to recover from being dead? If there’s even a way to answer that question, without any recorded incidents to compare this to.

After a long moment, he opens his eyes again, looking at the four around his bed, wondering that none of them had asked any questions yet. He raises an eyebrow, silent inquiry as to why they all remain silent.

Stark snorts, a wry smile crossing his face a moment. “You overheard us earlier.” The statement is far more accurate than Stark has any cause to guess, and Phil smiles a moment, though the expression feels less sardonic and more open than he intends for it to be. “Why ask about Barton first?”

Phil is quiet a moment, before he answers, speaking slower than he usually would, to keep his words clear as the need to sleep again creeps up on him. “Barton was compromised by the hostile Loki of Asgard.” And he’d died before he’d had a chance to find out if Clint was recovered – or killed, but Natasha wouldn’t tell him Clint is on his way if he were dead.

“Yeah. Natasha knocked some sense back into him.” Stark shrugs, still watching Phil with a smile that hides more than it shows. “Do you know how you got a free ressurection?”

“No.” Phil pauses, a small frown on his face. “I’m not sure it’s free, either.” He still doesn’t know why Hel had appeared in his – dreams? hallucinations? – to talk to him, especially since she hadn’t given him a straight answer to any question.

“Do you know who?” Rogers looks worried, still, but more convinced than Stark. It’s almost reassuring that Captain America thinks he is who he is.

“I’m not certain if the person I encountered while dead is the person who returned me to life. I was told the choice to live was mine.” He knows he doesn’t have anything that should allow him to return to life, but perhaps there’s something in those markers that Banner found in him that might provide some answer. If they find someone who can interpret the results, and that they can trust not to lie to them.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, giving him a look that says clearly she’s not going to allow him to side-step the question of who he’d encounted for long, but she at least doesn’t ask in front of the others. There are things he’d rather not discuss with Stark, at the very least.

He closes his eyes again, and isn’t certain when he drifts to sleep.

When he wakes up again, he’s not sure how long he’s been unconscious, but not long enough for Clint to have arrived, since the only person in the room is Natasha. She’s watching him, one hand resting on top of the one of his closer to her. Waiting for him to come around again, he thinks, because as soon as he opens his eyes, she reaches for a cup and pitcher, pouring him water.

He still isn’t able to hold it, but she brings it to his lips, and steadies the cup as he makes himself take small sips, rather than gulping at it. Rather like dealing with the aftermath of starvation, he needs to give his stomach time to adjust to being alive and working again. Which means small sips of liquid, bland and easy foods in small amounts.

“Thank you.” He lets his head lean back against the pillows again, resting for a long moment. “I don’t know if they were supposed to be dreams or hallucinations. Her name is Hel.” He doesn’t want to wait for Natasha to ask the question he knows she’s been holding onto since the last time he was awake.

“Loki’s daughter?” Natasha raises an eyebrow, though she doesn’t raise her voice, or move from the seat she’s in.

Phil gave her a small smile. “She didn’t seem to be happy about that fact.” The flash of remembered rage in Hel’s eyes goes through his mind. “I don’t think she likes her father.”

Natasha smiles at that, curling her fingers around his hand. “Do you remember anything else about any encounters with her?”

He nods, and after another sip of water, begins to recount what he remembers of the first encounter with Hel. He’s not sure if he manages to tell Natasha all of it before sleep creeps up on him again. That this time it dumps him straight into another meeting with Hel, though, does make him wonder.

“You didn’t give up and simply die.” Hel smiles at him, and it takes Phil a moment to realize she’s answering the last question she asked him. There’s amusement in her expression, and a flash of bitterness that Phil can’t quite figure out where it might come from.

“It’s not in my nature to give up.” It never has been, though there have been times when it might have been the more pragmatic option to leave something be altogether. He usually only finds a different way to deal with the problem.

“You will need that.” The expression on Hel’s face makes Phil wonder what there is behind that – wonder what’s behind the reason she’d even given him the choice to live, and why she keeps coming to bother him in this in-between place.

He doesn’t have a chance to ask why before she vanishes, and darkness swallows the dream, or whatever it is, with sleep.

“I hear you’re supposed to be back from the dead, and you’re not even awake when I get here.” The first words he hears when he opens his eyes this time are not from Natasha or any of the other three that he’s seen since he woke up. Although the tone Clint delivers them in isn’t as much snark as it is uncertain – not what Phil’s expecting.

He looks over where Clint is sitting, probably has been sitting since he arrived from wherever he’s been, and sees the same mix of emotions in the archer’s eyes as he’d seen in Natasha’s before. Not quite certain, but wanting to believe Phil is who he appears to be, that he is as alive and real and solid as he looks.

“How short did you cut your mandatory down-time?” It’s not even really a guess, but more knowledge of how SHIELD works, and knowing Clint had been compromised before Phil died, and not yet retrieved.

Clint shrugs, a familiar, sardonic smile crossing his face briefly. “Three weeks.” He pauses, studying Phil a long moment. “I brought Anna in with me. Nat’s taken her to get coffee or tea.” Or an interrogation, goes unspoken. Phil frowns, wondering why Clint had brought his civilian girlfriend into the Tower – it’s not something he’d ever expected to happen.

“She had an interesting story.” Clint runs a hand through his hair, still watching Phil with much the same intensity he does his targets. “Nat said you’d have an interesting story too.”

About Hel, and the encounters – three now that he can remember – he’s had with her. Phil doesn’t answer immediately, nodding only after a moment. “It can wait.” Until Clint had a chance to process this, and maybe told Phil what’s interesting about Anna. There’s something going on, and Phil has a suspicion that Anna’s story, and his encounters with Hel, are somehow connected.

zero-suit-sami:

|| Xena Warrior Princess

I haven’t posted in quite some time but I am so proud of this project that I figured I’d post it here as well. Thank you for all the support !

Facebook : /SamiBessCosplay
Instagram & Twitter : @zerosuitsami

inkskinned:

elphabaforpresidentofgallifrey:

aloeplantt:

does anyone else have those moments where they just fall in love with being alive? like, maybe you’re in art class with soft music and you realize that this peaceful feeling is a part of life that you love and you want to just keep forever, and there are so many other parts of life too that are so wonderful and maybe existing isnt so bad after all

is this what being not depressed is like

no, this is what recovery is like. this is what being depressed is like, and it’s why we stay. because even when we’re sure this is it, this is the last day we can put up with it, this is the last hour, the last second – some part of us remembers these moments, and thinks – what if tomorrow has one of them.

i used to joke i have bad days and worse days. i almost never do well. i feel like i keep barely a nose above the water.

but in those rare, rare, rare seconds where the waves stop for one second and i catch sight of something other than dark, i see it. the way a rose looks after a rain. how my mother smiles when she knows it’s my favorite meal that’s cooking. my best friend looking over his shoulder to flip me off again. the bike i rode at 7 and crashed at 17. a little bug struggling with five little legs – but walking, walking.

recovery isn’t smashing into these moments and realizing it’s finally happened, what those people said is true and it “all gets better”. recovery is remembering those moments and deciding – i want them back. it’s looking for them. sometimes it takes hours. sometimes days. sometimes months without any sight of them. but you look, you search even when you’re too tired to keep your eyes open, because you promised yourself … tomorrow. tomorrow will be the day we find one. a four leaf clover we know is our sign, the rainbow, the wishing well – the way out.

and when you find one, they get easier. four leaf clovers always grow in the same patch, after all. and your eyes get sharper. you figure out what makes any small part of you happy. you figure out that you might not be happy, but it’s good enough to stick around to watch the way oil looks in puddles and how she always cries at new year’s. and it might not be blisteringly, soul-crushingly happy in the way other people seem to feel things – in that mind-numbing wordless joy that shines in them, that glow i’m so envious of, that effortlessness – but it will be like this, just quiet, a moment of rest, of the shouts dimming for a minute, a peace.

it’s easy to say “i’m depressed, i’ll never be happy.” maybe. i hope not, because i’m still looking. and in these moments i’ve rediscovered that i am funny, that i like the color pink, that kittens and puppies never fail me. in these moments i’m still depressed, still me, still fighting an illness that wants to end me. but i’m fighting. i seek these moments in every second i get because i’m here and breathing and after all this i’m going to be pissed if this gets the better of me.

maybe i’ll never figure out how to feel effortless and free. but i know that i feel love when the music is blaring and my hands are out the window and i feel love somewhere on the beach and i feel love watching salamanders wake up in the mornings. it’s not other people’s love, it’s far-off and it’s distant and it might not be “normal”, but it’s goddamn important to me.

i didn’t wake up better. i forced better to come fight me. i’ve been walking towards recovery since i was 19. five years later and no, i’m not cured, but i see a lot more of these moments. or maybe they were always there, and only now am i realizing what i got in front of me.

and when it’s been bad again? when i’m not even breathing? when it’s been months since i felt anything, when the stress is too much and the sky is dark and the moon in me has fallen silent? i say: hang on. tomorrow might be the day we find it. tomorrow might be worth the fight.

the best part about this? eventually, i’m right.

First Impressions

dogmatix:

Soooooo someone asked for a bit more of the Tatooine!Obi, inspired by this awesome sketch from @teapirate, and, er, this happened:

First Impressions

The first time Qui-Gon woke up, he was standing in a
dreamscape. Looking around, he saw a
small child; human, male, maybe eleven years old. The boy was curled up, deeply asleep. The air around him still and calm, not
jittering to show impending REM sleep.

Lifting himself up out of the dream plane, Qui-Gon found
himself in the cave where he’d died, all that time ago. There was nobody there
except the boy and Qui-Gon’s own skeleton.
The boy had pried the holocron acting as Qui-Gon’s anchor from the skeletal
fingers, and was curled up with it.
Odd. Qui-Gon kneeled next to the
boy, who had folded himself into a shallow depression in the sand. Hmm. It was a good
way to conserve some heat. There didn’t
seem to be anyone else around, not within the distance that Qui-Gon could
sense, anyway. Not a plan to steal the
holocron, then. The boy must have gotten lost, and stumbled over the cave by
accident.

Qui-Gon considered killing the child, to preserve….what? His
solitude? Qui-Gon frowned. It had been
decades upon decades since Xanatos had killed him, even before he’d gone dormant.
He had no way to know if he’d slept through one year or a thousand, and really,
what did it matter, if a scruffy child wanted to curl up with the
holocron? He could always kill the child
later, if things became inconvenient. Hopefully, the boy would move on the next
day.

Keep reading

hobbitsaarebas:

jabberwockypie:

PTSD is your brain trying to make sure you DON’T DIE.

Humans are really good at adapting so that we don’t die. That’s kind of our whole *THING*. We adapt.

If something BAD and SCARY and DANGEROUS happens, your brain tries to teach you to react better next time. If the Bad Scary Dangerous thing happens a lot, that’s reinforcing it. With CPTSD, the Bad Scary Dangerous thing happened often enough and frequently enough that your whole psyche developed around it.

You learn to notice the tiny things that signal the Bad Scary Dangerous Thing might happen – even if you don’t consciously know that you know that – so that you are braced to react and defend yourself. They become triggers so that you are primed to respond.

Hypervigilance? Better to panic unnecessarily than to get dead because you didn’t recognize a threat in time, right? It’s uncomfortable and a waste of energy but you’re not dead.

Nightmares about the Bad Thing? Dreams are PRACTICE. You are trying to learn how to react better or faster or more effectively next time.

Avoidance? Dissociating is better than just completely breaking and shutting down entirely.

The thing is, even if you are not in that situation anymore, your brain did not get the memo. It is trying! But it takes a lot of work to convince it that “No really, it is safe now!”

I guess what I’m saying is cut yourself some slack. You are doing your best and you’re not dead. ❤

The realization that PTSD is a survival response helped me be less angry at my brain for the way it was behaving.

When my PTSD was pervasive and controlled my whole life, I didn’t understand that in situations of abuse, it can be difficult for even an outside observer to determine which things were dangerous. So your brain just labels anything or everything involved in the situation as dangerous. That’s how you wind up having fight/flight/fawn/play dead responses to innocuous things like telephones or shoes or the word “sweetheart” – because part of your brain figures that maybe they were part of what hurt you and thus should be interpreted as dangers. It’s the same survival-related pattern-recognition that allows us to spot camoflaged snakes in the grass, only in recovering from abuse, your brain is trying to spot snakes in the interpersonal relationship.

The process of recovering from PTSD often involves unpairing neutral simuli from survival responses. So you’re retraining your brain to understand that telephones and shoes and the word “sweetheart” do not signal imminent danger, and to instead recognize which interpersonal behaviors actually are dangerous.

MCU: ABMTW: Debts of Honor to Be Repaid In Service

Originally Posted: 15 December 2012

AO3 | DW

Fandom: Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
AU: Archer, Battle-Mage, Trickster, and Warrior
Series: Loki and Sif
Word Count: 5257
Characters: Loki (MCU), Sif (MCU), Thor (MCU), Odin (MCU), Frigga (MCU), Helblindi

Odin waits, his helm and Gungnir left aside, for here he is not in his role as king and All-Father, but merely as the father of a wayward son. He too owes a debt, though it is balanced by the debt which Loki owes to him, and may be regarded as filled.

Sif waits in the room where once private banquets for the royal family and their close confidents were held. Where once Thor had spoken of going to Jotunheim and repaying the frost giants for their invasion of Asgard, however small it had been. Where Thor had held the funeral feast for Loki, and where she had hoped he was wrong.

Where Thor is to return with Loki and the Tesseract when he captures his brother.

Frigga keeps her company in her vigil, silent as Sif, for no words need to be spoken for the other to know why they sit the long watch. The Warriors Three come and go, sometime with mead or food to share – that she refuses, and Frigga politely declines. Sometimes a thrall will come with the same, and the response is the same. Again, neither needs to know the other’s spoken reasons to know why they pass the vigil sober and hungry.

Only water to drink, and patient waiting in silence. Each with a debt acknowledged, that while some might pay it in gold or in blood, neither would feel it fulfilled by what so easily could be provided. So they wait.

When Odin joins them, Sif knows soon it will be time to offer what she might to pay her debt of disloyalty and doubt. Her treason – a treason that none know of save a handful, and none need know of if Loki might accept her offer in recompense, for it was against him she had turned when he held the throne in right.

That Loki is in chains when he and Thor appear in a blue flare of light from the Tesseract does not matter. His own actions that are outside of the bounds of both honor and law are not known to Asgard at large, and will not be, for those who have witnessed them are bound not to speak of them should Loki settle his debt to those who he has wronged.

Silence reigns as Thor brings both Tesseract and his brother from the balcony on which he has arrived to where Odin waits, his helm and Gungnir left aside, for here he is not in his role as king and All-Father, but merely as the father of a wayward son. He too owes a debt, though it is balanced by the debt which Loki owes to him, and may be regarded as filled.

Metal clatters to the ground at a touch from Odin, gag and chains alike unclasping from where they have bound Loki for his return. It is a mark, perhaps, of the weight and complex nature of the bonds between those present that he does not show any sign that he will flee and give himself over to cowerdice and outlawry.

“There are debts to be repaid.” The quiet words from Odin break the silence, and Sif can see Loki close his eyes against the words. “Both your own and those of others to you.”

She does not think Loki truly expects that, for he opens his eyes again, though his expression does not show the confusion she expects he feels. He is a master of masks and misdirection, and will not give them any more than he wishes them to see.

“And will Asgard accept any repayment save my blood upon the ground, and life sacrificed to those whose lifes were taken by the treachery I committed?” Loki’s voice, though low, holds a sharp edge that would draw blood if it were a physical blade.

“If those to who you owe your debts accept what recompense you provide, no other has standing to demand more, as is written in our laws.” Odin looks as though he wishes the words had been that blade Sif had compared them to in her mind. A physical wound heals faster than ones given to the heart and to the soul, which words cut deep.

“Only should the courts not hear witnesses to those crimes I have committed before such debts can be settled.” Loki knows as well as Odin those laws, for Sif knows he has skirted the edges of them – and gone beyond the bounds of honor and custom – often enough. “For all that I have been seen as your son, few enough have any love for me that they would keep such a secret.”

He looks to Sif, a hint of speculation flashing through his eyes as he is silent a moment in contemplation of his next words. “Indeed, you have one present I would think might be willing to speak of what she knows to others.”

Sif must chose her own words with as much care, that she does not wound Loki with them while trying to convey all she feels and thinks on what has passed. On the actions she has undertaken, and those she has seen in Loki. “I would not speak of them to those who do not already know. They are not matters to be known to all when there are yet accounts to be settled, for it is already a delicate thing.”

Words are not her tools, but she does not flinch at the awkwardness of them. She can only speak honestly and as carefully as she might, and if she still wounds, than she will count it added to her debt and seek to offer redress for that however she can.

Loki’s eyes narrow, studying her with a mix of calculation and curiosity. He did not expect her to say that, she thinks, but he’s nothing if not able to adapt to whatever he’s given to work with. He’s always been that way, ever since she met him when they were children.

“To tell others of what I have done would be to admit your own treason.” Loki smiles briefly, bright and bitter and self-depricating, as if he should have thought of that before. “You have more care for your own honor than to do such a thing.”

That reason is indeed one of the several she has for not talking about what had led up to the destruction of the Bifrost – an event for which Thor has taken responsibility, and been levied fines to pay for the rebuilding of. His own silent apology once made to a brother thought dead, now offered unspoken to a brother living.

But that is not the only reason, and she does not want Loki to think that. “That, in part, but not all the reason. I have a care for more than my own honor – and not just that of the Warriors Three, or of Thor.” The last she adds before he can speak to remind her of them. She is quiet for a long moment before she speaks again, holding his gaze and letting him see the shame she has tried to hide from others, and the honesty of her words, however poorly they might be chosen in her effort not to wound. “A care for the honor of the king I betrayed, no matter how well-intentioned I had thought myself at the time.”

Loki thinks he should have perhaps given Sif more credit for silence than he had, though he doesn’t know if her reasons are quite as altruistic as she would like him to think. That she believes them herself is clear, but she’d been quite certain, too, when she’d commited the treason that had brought back Thor before Loki had entirely carried out his intended plan.

He watches Sif for a long moment before turning his attention to the others in the room. The three who’d called themselves his family for centuries, for all of his memory, until the most recent ones. When he’d found the lie, discovered his heritage wasn’t of the Aesir, but of the Jotnar. He wonders if Odin and Frigga have told Thor what he is, or if his would-be brother is as clueless as he has ever been.

“And how much wergild shall I pay, that they be satisfied?” If there’s a note of bitterness underlying his words, there’s no reason any of them should be surprised. He is a master of lies, and still he’s been fooled and betrayed by the lies of others. Of those who he had thought to trust at least a little.

Odin meets his gaze easily, though his expression is as difficult for Loki to read as it has ever been. Calculation, careful thought, those are easily enough seen, because Odin wants him to see that. Of anything else, Loki can see no sign, and he’s never been quite sure if it’s because it is absent, or because it is well-hidden.

“They were einherjar, worth twice the wergild of a commoner.” Odin’s voice is firm, his word the end of the discussion as it ever is. “When it is paid, they shall have no standing to ask for more than you have given them.”

They will not, but they are not the only ones he has wronged in his actions since his discovery of the lie, and he doubts either the Jotnar, or the people of Midgard, will be satisfied with mere gold. If, of course, Odin deigns to acknowledge their claims upon Loki, and their cries of injury and demands for justice. The All-Father has never been one to allow others to sway his decisions without a great deal of effort – Loki knows just too well how much effort it takes to divert Odin from his decisions.

However, he cannot help but ask after the first, at least. “What of the Jotnar?” he asks with care, watching Odin warily.

“They have yet to send any word that they wish redress for any damage done to their world or their people.” Though they might have made complaint, that Heimdall or Odin would have heard, but Odin need not acknowledge such when no one else holds that information. Loki will have to find out on his own what the Jotnar will wish in redress for the damages he had caused.

Which might be a task to which he could set Sif, if she seeks to amend her own debt to him – something he cannot imagine her not doing when she has admitted to wronging him. It amuses him, but he keeps the smile from his face, waiting patiently to find out if there is anything else that his would-be family wishes of him, or if he might begin to seek to pay the wergild so he might at least attempt to return to some semblence of his life before.

“You will not leave Asgard until the Bifrost is rebuilt.” Odin’s words make him wonder what the All-Father has discerned of his thoughts, and Loki raises an eyebrow at him. “I would have you help your brother oversee its repair.”

Loki barely bites back the retort that Thor is not his brother, and instead stiffly nods his head in acknowledgement of the order. He would prefer to seethe, to strike back, but it is not yet time for that. He must bide his time, and prepare his plans first. Odin All-Father will pay a price for his lies and his treachery eventually, but not today.

“Is there anything further which you wish of me, All-Father?” He takes care to keep his voice even and pleasent, though the desire for conflict wars with a bone-deep exhaustion that even his anger and his sense of betrayal can’t keep at bay for long.

“There is nothing else.” Frigga speaks before Odin can, and Loki turns his head to catch the looks that pass between them. “All else can wait until you have rested, and settled the wergild with the families of those who you must.” Those whose deaths he had caused by his actions.

Loki bows, to both Odin and to Frigga, before heading for the door. He hesitates before it, uncertainty flowing through him a moment. He pushes it aside, and pushes through the door. The hallways between the banquet hall and the rooms he’d once called his own – which still hold everything that is his when he enters – are strangely empty, and he wonders at that. If Odin had intended it, or if others have cleared the halls so no one need encounter the disgraced prince upon his return.

Sif waits a long moment after Loki leaves to follow, ignoring that she hasn’t asked if she might leave, and ignoring the looks passing between the others in the room. Whatever the royal family needs to discuss without Loki present is not for her to hear, and she still has yet to find what Loki would have of her for her debt of honor to him.

The corridors nearest the hall, and among the royal quarters, are entirely empty of people – the former no doubt from her and Frigga’s vigil and the work of the Warriors Three, the latter likely because of the royal family, only Odin had been present of late in the complex of rooms and corridors they inhabited. A few thralls briefly showed their faces in between the two places, though they quickly vanished again once they caught sight of her.

Stopping at the door of Loki’s rooms, Sif regards them for a moment before turning away, and settling into an easy stance next to them. Let any who came by draw their own conclusions, but now that she stands here, she finds she cannot bring herself to disturb him until he emerges from his rooms of his own voilition. Until then, she will keep watch, and not allow others to disturb him, either, no matter what reasons they might have for the attempt.

The day has passed into night and once more into day before the door opens, and Loki emerges, though he blinks at seeing her. “Guarding me from others, or my jailor?” His voice is light, though there’s a bitterness behind the words, and a cynical expression on his face. Sif isn’t certain he’ll believe her, no matter what she says.

“Waiting for you to have rested.” Sif meets his gaze readily, keeping her easy and ready stance. “I have still a debt to repay.”

Loki raises an eyebrow, studying her for a long moment. Weighing her sincerity once more, and perhaps contemplating what he might ask of her. Sif tells herself that whatever it is he asks, she will not tell him no, or at least not immediately.

“Join me for breakfast, and I will tell you what you may do to settle that debt.” There’s a devious light in his eyes that makes Sif wonder if she will regret her unspoken promise to do as he asks for redress.

She accompanies him, as he makes his way through the palace to the kitchens, collecting food enough for the both of them, the carrying of which he delegates to her as they return to his rooms. It is little surprise he does not wish to dine with others, but she wonders that he did not summon a thrall to fetch them food.

They are nearly halfway through the meal before Loki speaks, though he has been watching her since he had made his offer. It is disconcerting, and she wonders what he has been planning, or at least thinking, all this time.

“I would know what the Jotnar demand of me for the harm I inflicted on them.” Loki takes another bite of his meal, still watching her. “You may be my envoy to them, and ask if they would have anything of me, or of Asgard. Without speaking to Odin of this, nor to Heimdall.”

Sif is glad she has nothing of food or drink in her mouth, or she would have choked on it. “How can I do such a thing? There is no way I know of to go from Asgard to Jotunheim without either the assistance of the All-Father, or the rebuilding of the Bifrost!”

Loki chuckles, a dark sound that sends chills down Sif’s spine. She doesn’t know what has amused him, but it does not bode well for her, she thinks.

“I will show you where the path lies, and teach you what you need to know to walk it.” But he will not show her how to walk it, because he cannot leave Asgard, by command of the All-Father, as she had heard him make the order himself. Dread pulls at Sif’s heart, and she takes a deep breath, trying to push the feeling away. This is what is asked of her, and this task she will do, though her memories of the only time she has been to Jotunheim are more of battle than of anything else.

“And if they do not believe that I come as envoy, and attempt to kill me for the affront?” She watches him carefully, trying to decide if it matters to him. Though if her death will satisfy her debt, she will at least die with honor.

“Then I shall have my answer.” Loki shrugs, his expression not revealing anything she is looking for. No answers for her, save the words he choses to speak. “And I am not inclined to offer them my life in return.”

“Should there be any offer I make them on your behalf, if they do not have any particular wishes on how you should redress your actions before?” It is, too, a piece of information she needs, even if she cannot tell what Loki’s motives are behind it.

Loki turns his attention back to his meal for a moment, silence reigning while he eats more. “There is nothing that I can offer until I have more information, and more freedom of movement.”

It is all the answer Sif will get, and she grimaces a moment. She will have to return in one piece, though if whatever path Loki is speaking of ends closer to the structure the Jotnar were in the last time, she might have a better chance of leaving in one piece. It will have to be enough.

Do not take your eyes from the path beneath your feet, the twist and loop of Yggdrasil’s branches and roots. Nightmares wait in the dark to drag you through the void – you do not wish that.

This is what you look for, to find the path to Jotunheim, to find the twist of space that will flower into a door from the branches of Yggdrasil to the physical world. This is what you look for to find the path home.

A side-step, a twist, a shift of mind. This is how you open those doors. This is how you close them behind you. When you can open and close this one, then I will pronounce you ready to take the journey.

A month passes before Loki is satisfied Sif knows well enough how to walk the branches of Yggdrasil to at least arrive in Jotunheim in one piece. He’s not as certain of her ability to return in the same state, but if she slips onto the paths before the Jotnar kill her, she will do well enough. He smiles to himself when she comes to his door a last time in the dark of the night, a last seeking of any instruction he might give her – a matter which he has given some thought, even if his ability to deliver on any promise he might make is hampered by the dictates of Odin.

“If they will listen to you, tell them I will bring the Casket of Ancient Winters to Jotunheim to help rebuild what I have destroyed.” Loki will offer no more than that, though he has little expectation that even that offer will be accepted. That they will wish the Casket returned, he has no doubt, but that they might accept him along with it is unlikely. Not impossible, but he would be a fool to think they’d want his presence after the damage he had done.

Sif watches him for a long moment before she nods. “I will tell them, if they will listen. And I will return with an answer.” There is determination in her voice and expression, though he can see no sign she carries her usual weapons. Perhaps in a mistaken thought she might show she comes with no intention of bringing war with her.

Loki is not inclined to correct her mistake, if mistake it is. She will pay her debt to him either in her service or her death, although he feels some faint tug of regret at the thought she might die in this endeavor. A journey which, while not explicitedly forbidden by Odin, is unlikely to gain more than his ire. Loki will face that consequence when he must, though, and not before.

“Come straight to me when you do.” Loki does not let any of the variety of concerns and thoughts that have run through his mind show, giving Sif only a mischievous smile that is perhaps less sharp than it has been in some time. “I would not have Odin discover what you find before I do.”

He reaches out to clasp her shoulder, weaving a familiar spell as he does, to hide her from Heimdall’s gaze, and from Odin’s. It will keep those secrets he wants found out from the All-Father and Asgard’s gatekeeper alike until he can make use of them.

Sif gives him a puzzled look before she nods, and turns to leave, drawing up the hood of her cloak. It’s the same one she wore the last time she’d been to Jotunheim. This time, though, she is alone, and the Bifrost is broken. Loki watches her for a moment before he turns back to his room, closing the door silently behind him. Now he must wait.

The empty halls are almost eerie as Sif makes her way down toward the weapons’ vault, the place where Loki had shown her the weak point in the fabric of Asgard, where she could step onto paths that twist between the worlds, Yggdrasil’s branches that bind all the realms. The Bifrost is a far safer way to travel, but it is still damaged, not yet repaired enough to permit travel across it to other realms, not even Midgard.

Sif pauses in front of where the path is supposed to begin, drawing a deep breath, repeating to herself the lessons Loki had drilled into her head, merciless as any arms-instructor. The air shimmers with the effects of the spell, and Sif steps into the shimmer, a turn of her hips and almost sideways movement that takes her into a world of shadows. A path shimmers underfoot, grey and rough, and darkness surrounds her, soft as any blanket.

She isn’t certain why Loki says the darkness is full of nightmares, but she doesn’t look, keeping her focus on the path beneath her feet. There are subtle signs in the texture of the shimmer that Loki has said are the signposts of the realms. It soon doesn’t matter if there are nightmares in the comforting dark, because it takes all her focus to read those subtle changes of texture and gleam, and not become lost among the branches of Yggdrasil.

There’s another subtle change when she is at the weak point that she twists through and steps out into the dark and cold of Jotunheim. The sharp spires and broken blocks of icy architecture where once she supposes stood palaces and temples and homes. Wind howls, and snow stings against her face as she turns in a slow circle, looking for any sign of Jotnar. Her clandestine mission is for naught if she cannot find any.

All she sees is the ice, and some familiar landmarks that she recalls from the previous visit to this place. She is still a bit of distance from where they’d encountered the Jotnar before, and taking a deep breath of the bitterly cold air, she begins to walk in that direction.

“What brings a daughter of Asgard to Jotunheim, weaponless and by secret paths?”

After the lack of any sign of Jotnar, the words startle Sif, and she turns toward the voice. A pair of eyes glow like red coals where a stray hint of light hits them, a Jotun mostly hidden in the shadows of the ice. Watching her without moving, though Sif doubts she can trust him not to attack if she gives him the chance.

“What do you know of secret paths?” It’s not a good beginning to her mission, but Sif refuses to flinch, standing with her shoulders back and chin up. Daring the Jotun to attack her for the sharply-spoken words.

There’s the sense of a shrug. “Distant kin of mine followed a son of the Aesir through such a path, and never returned.” A shift in the shadow makes Sif tense, but the Jotun didn’t emerge, just settled once more, though the crimson eyes narrow a moment. “Why do you come here, warrior-daughter of Asgard?”

A Jotun who may have seen her on the previous trip, then, and recognizes her. Sif isn’t certain if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

“I bring a message from Loki Odinson, that he would know what recompense is asked of his actions that have brought sorrow to Jotunheim, and to offer that he might bring the Casket of Ancient Winters to repair what damages were done.”

There’s a grinding sound that it takes her a moment to realize is laughter. It sounds more like the shift of sea-ice in a fjord. “What need has Loki Laufeyson of recompense to the dead? They have no need of it, and the damage is done all by Aesir born and blooded.”

Sif frowns, the words making little sense to her. “Speak plainly. What mean you by that?”

The glow of eyes is hidden a moment, and she has the sense that the Jotun is trying to stifle some amusement. “He offers what only a king may, and if he might direct the power of the Casket, he is Laufeyson, not Odinson. If he would bring the Casket, he claims the power of the throne, and of Laufey who is dead. Let him prove he has that power, and he has no need to offer any recompense for the dead, as would an Aesir for Aesir dead.”

Her frown deepens, and Sif watches the Jotun – or the shadow where the Jotun is, at least – for a long moment before she speaks again. “Who are you, that you can speak of this with authority?”

“No authority but the truth.” Another sense of a shrug, ice shifting and cracking on a swift-running stream. “I am called Helblindi Laufeyson.”

A chill as cold as the wind here spreads through Sif, and she narrows her eyes as she stares at the Jotun in the shadows. A son of Laufey, who claimed Loki is, too, such a one. That Loki is of the Jotnar, not of the Aesir, if he were to wield the power of the Casket, as he’s offered. She doesn’t know if she should believe the Jotun, or if this is a lie that Loki has held onto all his life. Save how could he have done such a thing, when even a shapeshifter of such skill as Loki could not have hidden his true form as a small child?

“You claim Loki as a brother, then?” she asks, not certain where the question comes from, nor why it feels important. If this is something that Loki will welcome, or will reject as violently as she had rejected the life of a lady or Valkerie.

“I have two brothers, only one of which I have known.” Helblindi pauses, and there is a shifting-ice sound of movement, the Jotun emerging from the shadows, barely twice the height of Thor. “The younger still is under my protection. The older has been missing since the temple was destroyed by Odin One-Eye. Your Loki has claimed to be able to use the Casket, and only my older brother, of all of us, might hold that power.”

Sif holds her ground, though she dearly wishes she could retreat to the gateway onto the path. Wishes she had her sword or her glave. Any weapon that she might use to defend herself if Helblindi attacked her.

“So if your Loki has the power he claims, yes, I would claim him as brother, and as king, if he might bring the others under his sway, as well.” There’s a smile on Helblindi’s face that Sif isn’t certain she can read. “Tell your master all that, daughter of Asgard, and if he has the will to yet come, then bring him here to do as he would offer.”

Glaring at the Jotun for a long moment, Sif nods stiffly. She doesn’t give voice to the denial of being Loki’s thrall, to send wherever he will without thought for her own wishes. “I will so tell Loki.” Her word had already been given to carry out this task, and she would see it done before she let her own anger loose. The warriors on the practice grounds perhaps do not deserve her ire that would be directed at the Jotnar, but she had no other recourse with the Bifrost damaged.

Helblindi chuckles, and nods back toward where she had come through. “I shall watch, that no one stops you nor follows you, daughter of Asgard.”

“My name is Sif.” She doesn’t know why she tells the Jotun that, but perhaps it is only injured pride, or anger at his earlier insult.

Another chuckle, and Helblindi shrugs. “Until you return, Sif, with this would-be Laufeyson.” He settles against the ice in which shadow he had hidden before, and Sif can feel him watching her as she makes the twisting step back onto the paths of Yggdrasil. The dark is not as comforting on the return to Asgard, and Sif moves as swiftly as she might until she finds the ripple of the door from the shadows of Yggdrasil to the firm reality of Asgard.

Leaning against the wall, Sif closes her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady her racing heartbeat, and the rising tide of anger that has no target. She wants to be angry at Loki for his lies – more on top of those he’s already told – but she can’t help but wonder if those lies aren’t entirely his own. She wants to be angry at the Jotnar for the damage they’d done that drew Thor to Jotunheim and left her to incur the debt she’s trying to pay, but she could easier be angry at the Destroyer for attacking. They did only what they were led to do.

She could be angry at Thor for being foolish, save he was being only himself. Angry at herself for not thinking past the first, obvious reasons behind what had happened. Angry at the Warriors Three, or the wind, or even Odin All-Father, but none of it will do her any favors.

Another deep breath, and she shoves away from the wall, moving quietly down halls that are still as eerily empty as they were before. As if no one has noticed she’s gone, as if it’s been only minutes instead of what she thinks should have been hours. She moves with purpose, but not too quickly. No need to draw unneeded attention to herself until she returns to Loki’s rooms, and can tell him what Helblindi told her, and rid herself of some – if not all – of her debt.

lord-kitschener:

wearitcounts:

wearitcounts:

this dog that i dogsit for is an actual angel sent from heaven, evidence:

he’s 100 lbs and so gentle i don’t need any special collar or leash or harness to walk him, ever

he was meant to be a service dog but he was too shy so he became a rescue, can u even imagine

so well behaved he waits for me at the tops and bottoms of flights of stairs until i tell him it’s okay to go ahead up/down the next flight

he somehow communicates to his dads how much he loves me bc they tell me every time i leave and they come back he’s sad ?? my son !

he knows that if it rains or snows or he gets wet he needs to wait at the bottom of the stairs inside their condo to be towel dried

he is trained to towel dry himself; i hold out the towel and he wiggles his body through it back and forth until i dry his tail and that’s his signal to go ahead and go inside

he hangs out by my feet all evening making big impatient huffing noises until i go in the bedroom with him and sit up in bed doing whatever i’m doing so he can sleep by me

like i feel the need to reblog this post bc i neglected to include evidence:

loves pets and attention but is shy so once given pets and attention basically loses his mind and rubs his face all over you while not knowing what to do with his entire 100 lbs self

always a slut for chin scratches

spots of white on chest and toes and chin

will pretend to be scary at men when they come into the house until i reassure him it’s ok

other dogs Love him bc he’s so big and so sweet and so chill and it’s fun to walk the best looking dog who is also the nicest dog while everyone around you is like “wow ur dog is so cool” like thanks i made him

if u ask him ‘who’s a good boy?!?!’ he seems genuinely concerned it might not be him until you confirm such to be true

Please always confirm to him that he is not only a good boy but the best boy

naamahdarling:

drneverland:

siryouarebeingmocked:

gservator:

themilitaryindustrialcomplex:

childofdragons:

avengette:

cuntsman-sniper:

destielkills:

twowandsandadrink:

totemo-kawaii—ne:

omgtsn:

shittingllamas:

dudewhodoesthings:

kystokeable:

sizvideos:

Watch it in video

No.

No this is not funny.

Whether or not it is a joke, I’ve gone onto the channel and there are multiple videos similar to this, which makes me think they’re fake.

Doesn’t matter.

These videos enforce the idea to parents that yes, the answer to stop your child becoming obsessed with games is to DESTROY them.

No. This is not funny. It is things like this that cause events such as the father who SHOT his daughter’s laptop to bits to occur. These jokes enforce the attitude that people are ‘wrong’ for loving games.

For wanting to play games.

For some people (including myself), games are a serious escape from horrid realities. The only escape some people can get. The idea that this man (boy?) is wrong for being so upset is disgusting to me?

This is horrific. This is abuse. This is wrong.

This is a sure fire way to get your kids to hate you.

do people not understand how much video games cost?

Video games are a multi-billion dollar business. Some people are good at it. Very good. Do not squander your child’s talents, help them realize them and strengthen them. There are other ways to get your child outside without destroying their games and everything they work for. This won’t solve anything; this will only set them back further.

do this to your childs anything and they will automatically hate you/not trust you

It doesn’t matter what it is

It doesn’t matter if its their video games or if its their smoking pipe

If you just destroy it/throw it away, you are giving no explanation as to why it’s bad/you don’t want them to have it

This can actually psychologically mess a kid up because you teach them that if someone doesn’t like something, they should destroy it

That can lead to some serious problems with socializing with others and other things

dont do that to people

dont

I had a notebook I used to write in all the time. I did that thing that Margo did in Paper Towns where she criss crossed her writing, but I did it so I’d have enough room to write everything. I took it everywhere wtih me and wouldn’t let my parents even start the car unless I had in in my lap. My dad got really annoyed by this and said I needed to throw the notebook away, what was written in it wasn’t important anyway (it was to me, very much so). So one day he took and ran it through the paper shredder.
Ever since I’ve had an intense fear of losing my notebooks and currently have a colletion of 53 blank notebooks and 16 that have been written in because I’ve started hoarding them.
Long story short, don’t fucking do this to your kids. You think it’s harmless and some people even think it’s clever, but you’re really just an asshole and are causing actual psychological problems for your children.

I have a plush rabbit that I’ve had since Easter of the year I was born (I was about 2 months old when I got it). It quickly became a comfort thing for me and I used to go everywhere with it as a child. When my mum and dad split up was when I became kind of dependent on having it around.
If ever I did anything wrong mum always threatened to take it away from me, which obviously caused my 6-year-old self to kick and scream and cry because I needed it.
One day I lost it for 6 or 7 months (turns out it was in my room the whole time but shh it was very well hidden & neither myself or my mum know how it got there)
That was the point that my mum realised she couldn’t threaten to take it away because holy shit I changed so much in those months.

Seriously, if your child is dependent on something, or takes great comfort in having it around
DO NOT TAKE IT FROM THEM.
It does not matter how old your child is, what their comfort item is, if it’s a video games console – don’t take it from them. If it’s their phone – don’t take it from them. If they’re 18 and still sleep with a teddybear – don’t take it from them.

This also goes for if your child is self-harming. If they have a blade in their bedroom and you find it DO NOT THROW IT OUT. Talk to them about it, be as supportive as you can, but do not think “oh well if I get rid of it they’ll be fine”. It can be seriously distressing and also lead to them becoming creative with what they use.

Getting a job and becoming an active member of society is important, but this is not the way to get your kid to do so. As others have previously stated, this is how to get your kid to hate you. Have a problem with your kids? Talk. To. Them.

Don’t make fun of them for the thing they’re dependent on. You cause them to feel shame for having something they like or trust. That’ll screw them up and give them trust issues. You’ll take away their fight and bet them down.
I’m dependent on certain habits and things and my family makes fun of me for it. It leaves me a nervous wreck because those habits aren’t continued out of shame and fear of more judgement and teasing. Encourage your kid to not be dependent on things since things come and go but don’t you dare make fun of them for it or take it away. Got it?

he’s a kid. Kids have all the time in the world to enjoy video games, and most slowly grow out of or learn to enjoy them in moderation after high school. I also wonder how many of the parents who support this mindset are fine with the idea of their child smashing their brain-cells to a viscus paste in Junior athletics?

My Dad used to take my Pokemon cards when I was younger and he would rip them one by one, every time he would try to find my rarest most treasured cards and destroy them.

He would Gleefully exclaim “it’s ripping time” every time I crossed him slightly.

I still haven’t forgotten or forgiven, destroying your kids possessions is a sure fire way to make your child resent you and hold a grudge against you.

Mum ripped her copy of Waiting to Exhale in two because she caught me reading it as a kid, shouting “this is not a good book!”

I remember being very confused.

Also, we had Robocop on VHS at the time. Still do.

doubling back on the “if you find a blade” comment:

if you find things that would harm your kid, definitely talk it out, don’t try to just throw it away and hope for the best.

You know what your kid will do? Become better at lying and hiding things from you.

There are a few people commenting or reblogging with “Relax! This was scripted! That makes it okay!” And occasionally: “Besides, I think it’s funny!”

I don’t CARE if it was scripted. This isn’t funny. It wouldn’t be funny if it was a scripted video of a guy beating his girlfriend for messing up dinner, either.

Because abuse isn’t funny.

The punch line here is literally “hahaha, people experience pain when you destroy their things!” That’s a shitty joke.

To add to the various comments on why this isn’t funny – I’m just skimming the gifs to get to the rest of the post or the next one, and I felt like I got punched in the chest because of this shit.

And these aren’t even my things. I don’t know the people in this. I didn’t know it was scripted, and even if I did, I don’t care.

To see that sort of thing, to see someone think that this is okay, even as a fucking joke, hits hard. Right now, I am probably going to go cling to my bear even though it’s going to mean itchy skin, and have a good cry, because crying is safer than raging and screams and self-harm.

And you know what? I’d be surprised if my reaction is unique.

Not only is actually doing this shit not okay, but treating it like a joke is not okay either.

banshy:

Untitled by Jason Fenmore

Avengers/Norse Mythology: ABMTW: The Archer and the Battle-Mage

Originally Posted: 8 December 2012
AO3 | DW

Fandom: Avengers (2012), Norse Mythology
AU: Archer, Battle-Mage, Trickster, and Warrior
Series: Clint and Angrboða
Word Count: 7540

Characters: Clint Barton | Hawkeye, Angrboða
Ships: Clint Barton | Hawkeye/Angrboða

Warnings: Sexual Content

“Bed?” he murmurs, loosening his grip enough that she can turn to look at him, to study him for a long moment. “To sleep.”

A smile crosses her face, and she leans in for another kiss, chaste and brief. “And I will still be here when you wake up,” she murmurs, a promise that loosens something in his chest.

Clint runs a thumb across the dark screen of the phone, his expression carefully blank as he contemplates the house he’s standing outside. The lights are on, but there’s no sign of movement inside at the moment, despite the car in the driveway. Nothing save the stillness suggests the owner isn’t home.

The screen on the phone lights up, music from some Swedish band breaking the quiet of the residential street. A familiar face smiles up at him from the screen, and he hesitates for a long moment before he swipes a thumb across to answer it, lifting it to his ear. There’s only a couple people who have this number – one of whom won’t call him again.

“I left the spare key where I always do.” The greeting confirms his suspicion that there’s no one home. “I’ll be home in a couple hours, if you want to wait for me.”

He’s quiet a moment, not entirely certain if he wants to wait in an empty house, despite the promise of company soon. “Where are you? I’ll meet you there, pick you up.” It’s better than waiting, especially right now. He doesn’t want to sit still, because that means he has to face his own memories and thoughts, and he doesn’t want to do that right now.

“Client confidentiality, love.” That’s as familiar an answer to him as the word ‘classified’ is to her. Sometimes he really doesn’t like the inability of either of them to share, if only for a brief moment. “Do you need me to come home sooner?”

And sometimes he doesn’t need to tell her anything for her to understand that something’s wrong. There aren’t many people who can read him so well, and one’s dead, one knows too much of this for him to want to stay with her tonight, and the third really shouldn’t abandon her job just because he can’t hold himself together when there’s nothing to do but wait.

“Is there anything you need picked up before you get home?” he asks instead of answering her question, which is really as much an answer as it is a question.

There’s a hum on the other end, and silence for a second. Her thinking, whether about an answer, or about what’s in front of her, he doesn’t want to know. “Are you up for cooking dinner, or do you want to order in?”

He doesn’t have an answer for a moment, before he grimaces. “Order in.” He finally moves, going to where he’s left the car he’s borrowed parked on the street. There are several restaurants nearby that do carry-out, and he’ll at least have some sort of company while he waits. “Preferences?”

“Whatever you want to get. If I haven’t tried it already, it’s always good to try something new.” There’s another pause, and quiet for a moment. “I will see you when I get home, love, and not on the evening news.”

Clint closes the door of the car, resting his free hand on the wheel for the moment. “Yeah. Not on the evening news.” He wonders if she’d been watching the news when Loki attacked Manhattan, if she’d seen that and wondered if he’d been involved. As long as it’s been since he talked to her, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Good. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” There’s silence again, this time that of the call being disconnected. Anna’s no better at goodbye than he is, but he knows she’ll hold to her word – and try to make sure that soon as she can isn’t any longer than the two hours she’d initially said.

Letting out a slow breath, he turned the car on, and pulled away from the curb. There’s a little place that does Polish food somewhere nearby, and they’ve ordered enough from it that he can get an order to go. They’ll even recognize him, and probably sit him down with something to keep him busy until the food’s ready.

Worry is something that’s always made her focus better – worry that might distract others, make them think on some other matter. She shoves the matter itself to the side, her focus sharpening on her work, the better to finish sooner. The sooner it’s done, the sooner she can leave and she can go have dinner with her boyfriend and find out what he can tell her of what’s bothering him.

Anna’s not foolish enough to think Clint can tell her much – this isn’t the first time he’s come back to her, and not been able to share what causes his nightmares, his fears, his need to hold onto her to make sure she’s safe and alive and there with him – but she knows she will listen to what he can, and be there while he works through the rest. What he can work out with her, rather than someone who knows what he can’t tell her; maybe she should be jealous of the woman he works with, but she’s never been able to summon that emotion.

A few more minutes, her typing sounding like the soft drumming of fingers on a counter rather than the rattle of keys. A small smile quirks up one corner of her mouth as she breaks through the encryption, transferring the file that her clients hate to see before she retraces her steps, carefully erasing her electronic footprints. It takes a bit longer to extricate herself physically from the site and retrieve her taps on the site security.

Only once she’s in the car she uses for work, and heading back home does she make the call she needs to. “Cameras, guards, and alarms. Upgrade and replace. Say hello to Spot for me.” Her shorthand sometimes annoys clients, but it gets the point across quickly and concisely. “I’ll have the full report for you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Ms Boyd.” There’s a sigh, and she can imagine the expression on her client’s face, as well as how much he undoubtedly wishes to curse. “The remainder of your fee will be transferred upon the reciept of that report.”

“As always, Mr. Greene.” She smiles as she ends the call, and turns off that phone. She’s not availible again until morning – tonight is for making sure Clint has come back to her in as close to one piece as possible. Anna isn’t certain what she’ll do if he’s not enough in one piece to put back together in whatever time he’s been allowed this time; Clint broken isn’t something she really wants to contemplate.

She’s never been sure she could put together someone who’s been broken, after all.

Clint’s keying the code into the security system when he hears a car pull into the driveway, and he automatically reaches for the gun that is holstered at his thigh when he’s on a job. There’s no weapon there, and he tenses a bit before he forces himself to relax, and listen. A car door opens, and closes, another does the same shortly after – someone grabbing items out of a back seat.

That the front door opens slowly a moment later, with a quiet, “Hey, love,” from Anna allows him to relax further. He gives her a brief smile as she steps inside and closes the door behind her, though it doesn’t last long.

“I went to the Polish place.” He gestures toward the dining room, and the bag waiting there with dinner. “You want help with anything?” She’s carrying a duffel and a bag that looks like it probably contains a laptop – not something she’s likely to let him handle, but they’re both very aware of the boundaries between their jobs and their personal life.

Anna smiles, and shrugs the duffel off her shoulder. “That needs to go to the laundry, if you would, love?” The laptop bag she keeps close. “That will let me secure this, and then we can sit and eat.”

She leans in when he comes to take the duffel, and presses a gentle, chaste kiss to his cheek. Reassurance that she’s here, and won’t press for more than he wants, before she goes to the back bedroom that has been made into an office. It doesn’t take long for her to do what she needs to do, or for him to dump the contents of the duffel into a hamper – and he’s not sure what her current job is that she’s carrying the same sort of clothes he would for breaking and entering, or that he wants to know.

Dinner is quiet, mostly, discussion gravitating toward music and movies that have come out in the last few months. Nothing substantial until they finish, and move to the couch in the living room. Anna curls up against him, quiet for several minutes until he relaxes enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders as he usually would.

“Can you talk about it?” Even before asking if he wants to, she always asks if he can, and it’s not just a matter of security and clearances – he knows she holds a security clearance, but that just means she can know if he’s given permission to tell her. Right now, he’s not sure if he’s allowed or not, and it’s always better to err on the side of caution than make a mistake that could compromise his career.

“I don’t know.” Clint sighs, staring into nothing for the moment. “I wasn’t told not to, but…”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s fair game.” Anna turns her head, tilting it slightly so she can watch him. He can see her studying him out of the corner of his eye, and turns his head slightly so she can see him better. She’s silent for a long moment before she shifts to curl closer to him. “You survived, and you came home. How much leave did you get?”

“Indeterminate.” He shrugs. “At least eight weeks, unless the world’s ending.” He’s not sure how well he’ll cope with the quiet, but he doesn’t have a choice in it. Clint looks down to meet her gaze. “How much work do you have?”

“Just a report to get in tomorrow morning; no other clients pending.” She raises an eyebrow, curious. “Do you have anywhere you want to go, then?”

“Away from civilization for a while.” He doesn’t exactly have anywhere in particular in mind, but he can figure it out while he waits for Anna to finish with her current client. “Far enough away that there aren’t too many people around.”

“Fly or drive?” Anna shifts, settling more comfortably against him. “And warm or cold?”

He doesn’t respond right away, quiet as he thinks about it. “Somewhere in the mountains, if we go far enough north.” It’s harder to think of somewhere tropical where there would be few enough people to suit his current desires. “Maybe Canada?”

“Depends on if you want somewhere with a hard roof, or a tent.” Anna pulls away , turning to smile at him a moment. “I may actually have a contact who has a ranch up in Montana, with some places that don’t have neighbors for miles.”

It’s tempting, but Clint reaches out to grab her hand, tugging gently until she sits back down. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” Right now, he thinks he wants her company more than thoughts of where to go. Particularly when a brief burst of thought crosses his mind – a fragment that might be memory or might simply be fear – that he had told Loki all that he’d known about SHIELD, and those he’d worked with. He hadn’t let himself think about if he might have told Loki about Anna, as well, not until now, and the thought won’t let him go.

He wraps his arms tightly around her, closing his eyes as he fights down the fear he could have gotten her killed, gotten her tangled up in his work without ever knowing it.

“I’m here, I’m alive and I’m unhurt, love.” Her voice is a whisper, and her arms are wrapped over his, holding him in turn. “You’re alive, and here, and you still have me.” She traces the backs of his hands with her fingertips, a constant, repetitive motion of comfort. “You didn’t lose anyone you worked with, did you?” There’s a hint of fear there, a worry for him and those she’s never met, but knows he cares for.

“Nat’s fine.” And if she hadn’t nearly given him a concussion with how hard she’d hit him, she might not have been. It sends a chill through him to think about that possibility. “She’s fine.” Coulson isn’t, but he can’t bring himself to mention that, even if Anna had known of him.

She turns her head, and presses a kiss against his jaw, the angle awkward. Not saying anything, not pulling away or anything. He’d been surprised at first by her acceptance that he and Natasha are sometimes more than just partners on the job, but it’s been long enough that it just makes him glad she’s willing to share.

“Bed?” he murmurs, loosening his grip enough that she can turn to look at him, to study him for a long moment. “To sleep.”

A smile crosses her face, and she leans in for another kiss, chaste and brief. “And I will still be here when you wake up,” she murmurs, a promise that loosens something in his chest.

She leaves once she has the last pieces added to her report, with the raw data and conclusions that lay out the weaknesses the client still has to repair, and the strengths of his system he should build on. It doesn’t take long to deliver the report, printed as per the request, as well as providing the data on a disc. The longest part is the drive to and from the office, spent in silence without a call from Clint.

The smell of food cooking – hamburgers, if she doesn’t miss her guess – greets her as she comes inside, and she smiles, hurrying to her office to secure her materials before she changes into more casual clothing. Clint has the burgers on a plate, arranging the one to her taste as she comes into the kitchen.

“I could get used to having home-cooked meals for a while.” Anna smiles, hopping up to perch on the counter, watching Clint as he works. “Do you have an idea where you want to go for a vacation?”

To get away from civilization, and maybe outrun whatever demons are eating at him right now. Her smile fades into concern as she watches him, wondering what she might do to help him.

Clint shrugs, finishing putting together his own burger, and picking it up. “You mentioned someone in Montana with a ranch?” She isn’t sure if he’s asking because he wants to make use of it, or just because it’s polite.

“A regular client. He mostly keeps the ranch to have it – there aren’t any cattle or people on it, and he’s rarely in residence. I can call him and see if there’s anyone renting it right now. There’s no one for miles – and you can see people coming for miles, as well.”

She picks up her own burger as Clint takes a bite of his, silence falling for a brief while as they ate.

“Yeah.” Clint looks thoughtful, though she wonders if he might not be happier even further from civilization than an isolated and mostly-abandoned ranch. “I’ll arrange a flight, if you can get the ranch.”

Anna nods, taking another bite of her hamburger, thinking as she chews. “I can probably arrange as long as you need away, though it might involve me taking a few days for some work.” She skirts the precise nature of her work from long habit, and though there’s a brief flash of mingled curiosity and resignation, Clint nods. She’ll remain with him for as long as he needs to have her present, and only arrange any work for when she can leave him alone for a few days without worry.

They go in seperate directions after lunch, Anna to her office to talk to the client with the ranch, Clint to the dining room to call whoever he needs to in order to arrange a flight. It doesn’t take long to get the use of the ranch in exchange for testing the security at a new facility of his once it goes online – it’ll be a few months, fortunately, and long enough she won’t worry about Clint by then.

The rental car is sleek and fast, and Clint wonders if Tony had found out about his planned trip for a brief moment before he considers that this is also a vacation for Anna, and her client could well have arranged for the car as well. Anyone who owns a ranch for the sake of owning it probably has the money to do this sort of thing.

The drive from airport to the ranch house is quiet and uneventful, and the house itself is far enough from anywhere that Clint can let himself relax. The key for the house is hidden in a barn that’s a bit of a hike, and inside it’s comfortably cool, with a hint of dust in the air from lack of use, though they find the pantry relatively well-stocked and the beds made up with clean sheets.

“We’ll have to run into town to get milk and produce, but the rest seems to be well enough stocked.” Anna is in the pantry, looking over the contents, and looks back at where he’s standing in the doorway – there’s not enough room for both of them in the room. “If you want to bother?”

“Later, probably.” It would be good to have fresh food in the house, but he can make do with whatever’s in the pantry for a few days. Right now, he just wants the distance from other people, even though he’s not entirely certain he wants the quiet of his own thoughts.

Anna nods, tilting her head slightly to one side a moment before she comes over, pausing a moment before she slides her arms around his waist, and leans against him. Quiet, and grounding. “There’s plenty of space to hike around, and I think there’s a small library in here somewhere. Of movies and music as well as books. My client may not use this place for much, but he doesn’t like not having entertainment when he’s here, at least so he’s said.”

Clint wraps his arms around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of Anna’s head – he’s often surprised by how short she is, as he tends to think she’s taller when they’re not standing together like this. “I think I can live without the movies and the books.” The music he won’t pass on, but right now, all he wants is time with Anna.

Tilting her head back, Anna smiles up at him a moment before she leans up, pressing a kiss to his lips, chaste for a moment before he opens his mouth, deepening the kiss. Shifting to bring one hand up to cradle her head, his tongue sweeping over her teeth, into her mouth. Lazy exploration, just standing there, until they part for air.

Anna smiles at him a moment, resting her head against his chest again. “Or we can just do something about making up for the last four months.” There’s amusement in her voice, and affection, and Clint lets a smile cross his face a moment before he drops another kiss on the top of her head.

They eventually move from the pantry doorway into the living room, and the comfortable couch there, the afternoon spent making out almost like teenagers – just remembering what makes the other gasp and twitch. Dinner is just an interruption before they migrate to the bedroom, and the wide bed there, though they do little more than they have all afternoon. Sleep is easy, at least at first, wrapped around Anna, reassurance that she’s still there.

He wakes in the middle of the night with a gasp, the nightmare fragmenting as he tries to figure out what had so badly shaken him. It’s the same as any mission gone wrong, save that this has been longer coming, and he doesn’t actually remember all the reasons he has for nightmares.

“I’m right here, love. I’m right here, you’re safe, no one is dead.” Anna’s awake – woken by him before he woke himself, maybe – and maintaining a careful distance. He wonders how long she’s been repeating whatever soothing litany she’s been repeating, trying to wake him.

Clint reaches out, catching her hand and pulling her close again. She comes easily, wrapping her arms around him, and resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“I’m not.” Anna turns her head slightly, a chaste kiss landing on the shoulder under her head. “You needed me to be awake.” Silence returns for a long moment, before she murmurs, “You spoke, a little. A couple of names, a denial. You sounded afraid.”

He tenses a little, tightening his grip a moment before consciously relaxing. “What did I say?” He doesn’t think he’s spoken in his sleep before, and it worries him that he has now.

“Just a couple of names – Loki, Natasha – and ‘don’t’.” He tenses at the name Loki, and Anna shifts, her head tilting as if she’s looking up at him, though she can’t see his face in the dark. “Was Loki the name of whoever you were up against?”

He hadn’t been told he couldn’t talk about it, and he still isn’t certain if he should, but the battle in Manhattan had been on the news, and they couldn’t hide everything. Clint took a breath, tightening his grip on Anna a moment.

“Yeah, something like that.” He knows he isn’t as visible a member of the Avengers as Tony or Steve or Thor, or even Banner, so it’s not as likely to get out that he was involved in the battle, but it’s possible. Anna should know before that becomes a risk for her. “Natasha…”

“Nat.” He can feel Anna smile against his shoulder. “You sounded… afraid for her?” It’s a gentle question, inviting an answer, but willing to leave it be if he chose not to.

“I. Can’t talk about it.” Doesn’t know if he could bring himself to voice his fear that he’d left Natasha vulnerable to Loki and his manipulations, even if he were allowed to talk about that with Anna. He’s certain that he wouldn’t be allowed to talk of that much, since it wouldn’t be public knowledge otherwise.

Anna nods, resting her head against his shoulder. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep again tonight?” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d not been able to sleep after, though it hasn’t been often that he gets that far.

“I don’t know.” Clint knows he can’t get back to sleep right away, but he might manage it before the sun comes up. “Not right away.”

“Mm.” Anna traces absent figures on his chest, silent a moment. “I could tell you a story.” There’s a lightness to it that might be teasing, or might be something else, but Clint doesn’t think she’s dismissing his nightmare or worries. She hasn’t before.

“What sort of story?”

“An old one.” Anna smiles against his shoulder a moment, though it fades quickly. “Almost more myth than anything else.” Probably his mentioning of Loki in his sleep had tripped some memory of whatever story she had in mind.

“So long as it’s not something about Loki.” He doesn’t want to know more about what impression Loki had made on the rest of the world, whether or not there’s any truth in the mythology about him.

“Not about Loki, no.” There’s a note he can’t place in Anna’s voice, but she continues to trace absent patterns, and is quiet a moment before she starts to speak again, almost a chant.

Once, there was a woman, pale and tall, who lived in the north lands far from the warmth of summer. Her father was a giant of a man, blond and bold and fierce as Thor the Thunderer, who led his clan and his war-band well. Her mother, she never knew, but was often told was a pale beauty who left when she was but an infant.

She grew taller than her father, beautiful as her mother, and skilled in magic as few mortals are, though ever less than the gods. She stood by her father’s side when he led his war-band to battle, and made free with the magic of battle to protect her father, and defeat his enemies. And when they returned to the hall, she would wander the lands and forests nearest, to seek solitude in which to hear herself.

It was there that she met a man with green eyes, dressed in leathers and gold in a fashion unlike any she had met before. He was, perhaps, one of the gods, though she could not be certain. Still, she offered him some hospitality, for if he were one of the gods, better that she do so than turn him away.

He would not go to her father’s hall, but for her kindness he taught her a small trick of magic, nothing too great, and nothing beyond the skill she already possessed. A shared meal, and he left, vanishing into the snows without a trace.

Again and again he would come, each time sharing with her some meal, the fire she would build, and some small trick or tale. Never yet his name, and she gave him not hers, but she thought nothing on it. For he was, she was certain, one of the gods, and only one could she think of that was a master of magic who might shy away from the warmth of her father’s hall.

Only once did he come to her away from those forests and snows that were her father’s lands in the north, and that when the war-band was celebrating another victory. He hid easily, and drew her away from the camp to a place where it was quiet and there caressed her and spoke sweet words to her that she would lie with him, though he need have only asked. Not for love of this god – a god of lies, as well as magic – but for the heat of blood in her veins and the heady thrill of victory.

Clint lifted a hand to place a finger on her lips. “Not about Loki?” Lies and magic, which sounded an awful lot like Loki to him, and certainly evoked the same sort of roiling turmoil that thinking about Loki did.

Mouthing his finger a moment, Anna shook her head. “Not about Loki, save perhaps in the tangent. His is not the story.”

“Who is it about, then?” Because he’s not sure he wants to hear about anyone related to Loki, either.

“Angrboða.” Anna shifts against him again, one foot sliding over his knee. “She was his mistress, until he turned her away, and left her without lover or the children she had borne him.” There’s something under the words, but Clint is too tired to figure out what, sleep starting to creep up again. “Perhaps I should leave the rest of the story until later.”

“Probably.” Clint pulls her tighter against him, kissing the top of her head as she wraps herself around him further. Sleep doesn’t come easily, but the rest of the night is surprisingly free of nightmares, though he thinks there were a couple of times when they might have started, and something soothed them away before he woke.

Anna is still sleeping when he wakes up, and Clint is still for a long moment before he leans in to press light kisses across her forehead and down her cheek, smiling a little when she turns her head to meet his lips. Slow and lazy and easy before she pulls back a bit, watching him with a warm expression.

“Morning,” she murmurs, fingers lightly tracing across his chest. “Sleep better?” Her voice is still slightly sleep-fogged, and he rubs light circles at her waist, echoing her movements.

“Yeah.” He brings his free hand up to catch hers a moment, kissing her fingertips before running his hand up her arm and over her shoulder. Sliding his fingers into her hair, her cradles her head as he leans in to kiss her, hunger stirring as he maps out the inside of her mouth once more.

Her hands aren’t still, tracing over old scars, and the new one alongside his sternum, where Loki’s staff pierced him. Giving it no more or less attention than she gives any other scar, save when they make him tighten his grip, or dive deeper into the kiss. He breaks the kiss with a soft hiss when she scratches lightly across just below his navel, skirting with care his growing arousal.

Anna chuckles, nipping the underside of his jaw, and sliding one leg over his, hooking her knee over his. “Something you wanted?” she murmurs, her lips brushing his ear, and Clint shifts, rolling her onto her back, leaning down to kiss her again, hungry and brief. Trailing kisses down her neck, nipping at the hollow of her throat. He slides his hands over her skin, dipping below the waist band of her pants briefly, teasing her as she had him.

It only makes her groan, and slide her hand down his back to dig her nails into his ass. Murmuring in his ear that she wants, and rolling her hips up against him. It takes only a moment for them to shed what little they’re still wearing, and Anna arches against him again. Clint knows he should reach for a condom – hopefully there are some in the table at the bedside – but Anna shakes her head slightly.

“I’m not worried about it, love,” she whispers, pulling him down to kiss him hungrily. Rolling her hips up against him again, one hand curling over the back of his neck, the other slid between to take him in hand and guide him into her. Clint groans at the wet heat, hesitating.

“I’m not always at home, neither are you.” He would pull free if not for the leg she wraps around his hip, keeping him in place. He’s not sure what it would mean if tonight resulted in a child. At least that’s the only worry he has right now.

Anna leans up, kissing him gently. “If something happens, we can manage.” There’s something behind that, something he thinks is experience, but it’s a question he can ask later. Clint groans, and leans down to kiss Anna, moving slowly, drawing out as far as he could before pushing back in. Slow and maddening pace, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he moves.

Anna’s hips lift to meet his, her words quiet and encouraging him faster, harder. Hungry kisses and roaming hands, sweat slick and growing heat. Pleasure sets claws at the base of his spine, and Clint reaches between them, seeking to bring Anna to orgasm first, though he knows he’s almost too close to stop. Knows he should pull away, should spill on her skin for all the good that might do, but she wraps legs tighter about his waist, fingernails sharp in his shoulders.

“Come for me, love,” she murmurs in his ear, breathless and almost pleading. Clint captures her lips with his as he comes, feeling her tighten around him as he pants against her lips, resting his weight on his elbows though he’s trembling. Shifting to the side so his full weight isn’t on top of her, and drawing her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She curls close to Clint as sweat cools on her skin, breathing in the smell of him. When he’d woken her during the night, restless in the grip of a nightmare, she’d thought nothing of it, opening her mouth to call his name. He’d cried out before she could, fear lacing the name, the broken litany of denials, and her blood had run colder than it had in many years.

Hearing Loki’s name coming from his lips had stirred memories she rarely indulged in, save when between lifetimes, when she wasn’t trying to be anyone save herself. Perhaps it had been why she’d offered to share with him the story of her youth, even if she couched it in terms of an old story since gone to myth.

She knows it’s why she had foregone modern methods of preventing a child, even though her chances of becoming pregnant are as slim as they’ve been for centuries. Anna doesn’t know what happened between Clint and Loki, but she doubts it is anything good, with the fear in his voice. It makes her fear for her own relationship with Clint, and more so if he were to find out her past and her connection with Loki from anyone else.

“You’re thinking about something.” Clint is watching her, and Anna smiles at him, pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder. She isn’t quite sure how much she wants to reveal of her thoughts just now, though eventually she knows she will tell him all of it. Or most of it, anyway.

“Just old stories.” She shrugs, tracing idle patterns on his chest. It takes a little effort not to trace runes, to keep him close – she’d already indulged in runes to keep him safe the night before. She can feel Clint tense at her words, and she closes her eyes a moment. “I won’t tell you the rest if you do not want me to, love.” She turns her head to press a chaste kiss to his shoulder.

After a moment, he relaxs, though she thinks it’s more deliberate than actually letting go of the tension. “Maybe later.”

He pulls away after a few moments, heading for the bathroom, and she sighs, getting out of bed herself, and gathering the sheets from the bed. Later, she thinks, may be days, or it may be weeks. The story still swirls at the back of her mind, released from the box she keeps it in, for better and worse. Even if he doesn’t ask, she’ll tell him the rest of it, but not yet.

It’s most of a week – more than she hoped, less than she feared – before Clint asks her about the rest of the story. There’s a curious frown on his face, as if he’s trying to work something out, and Anna isn’t sure if she should hope or fear he’s already starting to work out that the story isn’t about some mythical being.

She takes a deep breath, leaning back against him on the couch, and let herself fall into the familiar cadence of story-telling. “Angrboða had lain with Loki after the victory of her father’s war-band, and returned with them to their northern lands….”

None asked where she had been until her belly grew heavy with child, and her father only demanded to know who had sired the child upon her, and if were one of their enemies, he would raze their lands for the affront. She spoke honey-sweet words to comfort him, and a promise it was neither one of his war-band nor one of their enemies. She did not speak of who the father was, saying only that if he wished to be known to be the father of her child, he would come to the hall before the snows melted.

Spring brought the birth of a son whose skin held a shimmer of scales for a moment before he was set in his mother’s arms, and whose eyes gleamed red until he blinked up at her. Sorcery of a sort her lover had taught her, though she feared she would not hold it well as her son grew. So she walked into the forest in the night, and called the name of the one who she knew to be her lover.

There she waited until he came, and into his arms she set his son, whispering to him the name she had given the boy. Jörmundgandr, whose skin shimmers with scales and whose eyes are fire-red. Who shifted into the form of a snake in his father’s arms, if only for a moment before slipping back into the form of a child.

She asked him for a spell to hide the boy’s nature until he grew of an age to defend himself, and need not fear the swords of her father’s war-band, nor that he would be left in the wilds to die. Wishing only safety for her son, and his father said it would be better – safer – for their son to return with him to his home, at least until he might hide his own nature as he desired.

With reluctance did she agree, and none spoke of the absence of her son when she returned to her father’s hall, save her father himself, and then only in the quiet of the darkest hours of the night, when few remained awake to hear. She told him her son’s father had taken him from her, to where he might be kept safe.

Still, she found no desire to turn away the father of her son, though she was uncertain of his reasons for taking her son from her. Naught but magic and meals did pass between them, though, for many a long year after. Her father died, and the hall to her left before once more she took the god of lies to her bed, this time welcomed into her hall. A second son she bore, though this time she did not fear to hide him, for she had learned some of the illusions which her son’s father wove best.

Indeed, her son had seen two full turns of the seasons before his father knew he had been born, and she would have hidden that he was ought but a mortal child from him. But he knew a lie, and unwove her illusions to see the son she had borne him this time. Fire-red eyes and an ability to slip from human to wolf with the speed of a thought. This son, too, he took to his home, though he wrapped him once more in illusion.

A finger on her lips stilled her words again, and Anna raises an eyebrow, looking up at Clint. Curious why he had stopped her this time – not because she had mentioned Loki, for he had let that pass, even though he’d tensed at each mention.

“Maybe later, for the rest?” Clint’s expression is one she can’t read, and Anna frowns, worrying for a moment before she pushes the thought away. If he figures it out, that’s better than him being told by someone else. Or finding out because Loki shows up, which he has done, even after she threw him out of her hall for the theft of her children.

“Whenever you ask, love.” She shifts for a more comfortable position, curling up with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Content to rest there, his warmth and simple presence a comfort of a sort she’s not found often, even among the mortals she tries hard to be as much one of as she can, with her lifespan.

The story sounds sorta like the sort of thing a myth would have, except something is niggling at him. Something not quite right, though he doesn’t think it’s the story itself – despite not finding anything like it in the slim book that had called itself the Prose Edda, or at least an English translation thereof. Then again, there isn’t much about Angrboða in there at all. And while he thinks he could probably ask Thor, he doesn’t want to answer the questions that might be asked if he showed an interest in someone connected to Loki.

He doesn’t want SHIELD to take any closer an interest in Anna, either, just because she has an interesting story to tell, regardless of any connection to reality. Especially since she’s given him something to think about that makes facing the quiet less of a worry again. Steadied him, which isn’t something he’d think he’d have applied to anything with connections to Loki before this.

Leaning his head back, Clint watches the ceiling, trying to puzzle it out, without waking Anna where she’s napping against his shoulder. If it’s possible to work it out without the rest of the story, and without more than a very slim set of resources available for him to look through.

It’s a puzzle that keeps him occupied until they’re curled up after dinner, some random CD he’d grabbed from the library playing quietly in the background. He needs the rest of the story, or he’s not going to figure out the puzzle.

“Tell me the rest?” he asks quietly, drawing Anna close. She’s been cuddled up to him for the earlier parts of the story, and it feels right to have her leaning into him while she finishes it.

She looks up at him for a long moment, studying him as if weighing how much he actually wants to hear the story. Whatever she sees makes her smile, though there’s a hint of sadness there that he doesn’t know the cause of. “The second son of Angrboða and Loki was called Fenrir, and he too, was taken to Asgard to live with his father.”

She grieved for the loss of her son, but was persuaded, after a lifetime’s change of seasons and lessons in something of the magic that allowed the god of lies to remain unseen by the guardian of the Bifrost, to lay with him a third time. He took her to a place of dark forests, far from her realm, there to remain for many days, taking joy and pleasure in each other. She returned after to her realm and to her hall, and there bore a daughter, who she hid from all sight save her own.

A daughter who grew tall as her mother, hair dark as night, skin in part blue of glacier ice and in part pale as the winter sun, and eyes fire-red as were her brothers’. She was near to a woman when she was taken from her mother’s hall, stolen in secret and nothing left but her mother’s memories and raging screams.

When next came her lover, the father of the children she had loved more than she ever had him, she bodily cast him from her hall, telling him not to return until he brought back to her the children he had stolen, sons and most of all her daughter. A daughter he said he knew naught of, and denied having taken from her hall.

Long centuries she passed after, leaving behind her hall to wander the world, seeking ever for her children lost to her, and sometimes thinking that she heard their cries for her on the wind.

“Perhaps she still wanders.” Anna’s voice is soft, her forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, though she’s holding more still than Clint expects. As if waiting for something to break.

“Maybe.” If Angrboða is as immortal as Thor and Loki seem to be, perhaps she even is, though Clint’s not sure how that’s possible, even for the Asgardians. He strokes Anna’s hair back from her face, studying her expression out of the corner of his eye. Pensive, and a bit worried. “Does the story say if she ever found her kids?”

“She never did.” Anna’s voice is soft, and there’s a flash of pain quickly hidden. “Nor did Loki ever tell her what might have become of them, though he returned to her time and again. Never to ask again to share her bed, for he is no fool, but ever he sought her forgiveness.”

Clint is quiet a long moment, before he leans down to press a kiss to her hair. “Do you think she ever forgave him?” He wonders if this isn’t a story she knows better than just a myth she’s heard – he’s not sure he’d be surprised if she does – and that leads to more questions than he thinks he wants answers to right now. Too many questions about the past, and he knows he hasn’t been as honest about his past as he could be.

“Perhaps if ever he returned her children to her.” Anna shrugs, letting out a little sigh. “I don’t know that she could, otherwise. Her children Angrboða loved more than she did Loki.”

He lets out a brief hum, tightening his arm around her shoulders a moment, before shifting so he’s laying down on the couch, tugging her with him. Just resting, and holding onto her while he tries to think about the story. She had to have a reason to pick that story, even if it’s just a myth, and maybe he’s reading more into it than what’s there because of what’s been happening recently. He’s still trying to figure it out when he drifts to sleep.

Notes: There are ten stories in this AU, and a lot of loose ends not tied up. A lot of that is because my sounding board and cheerleader for this AU died while I was still writing it, and I have never been able to finish it. I hope people enjoy what there is, despite the abandonment of it, and knowing it will never be wrapped up.