"Growing Pains" - Loki + Thor (AU movie!Marvelverse) - {Chapter I}

[wordsworn]

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A/N: ...fffff What is this why am I even. And A CHAPTER-FIC NO LESS. Ah well...I saw this prompt and the plot bunny came at me like the Killer Rabbit in that Monty Python movie--latched on and wouldn't let go, took no prisoners, blood everywhere, general messy business. BUT SUCH IS A WRITER'S LIFE.

Cross-posted in the comments of Round 1 @ norsekink.


{ .I. } {In Which Odin Proves Himself An A+ Father, Really}

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“You wanted to see me, Father?”

Though respectful and carefully controlled, Loki’s voice still sounds small and thin even in his own ears; but then, the weapons vault always makes him feel rather small. Not quite in a threatening or frightening way, but it was just awe-inspiring enough to put him on his best behaviour whenever he found himself there, burying the urge to touch and ask questions about everything. The items contained therein, trophies won with blood, by strength of arm and will and mind, are eye-catching, the room itself so ascetically grand that he can’t help feeling tiny and a little insignificant in comparison. And he feels smaller than ever this time, because Thor isn’t there with him, that constantly bold and recklessly brave presence, the perfect scapegoat should anything suddenly need to be blamed on someone.

“Indeed I did, my son.” There’s an odd sort of strain on Odin’s face as he turns away from staring at one of the many relics to greet Loki, something the dark-haired boy can’t make sense of, the usual warmth mingled with worry and something that almost looks, if he didn’t know better, like guilt.

“…Is something the matter, Father?” he asks, pausing a little more than halfway down the stairs into the vault. Has he done something wrong? But no, Odin doesn’t look angry, and Loki can’t think of any particularly recent trouble he’s caused that would merit this sort of audience, alone with the King of Asgard in a place of power, surrounded by his trophies and weapons.

Odin waves aside the question, then holds out his hand and gestures for Loki to come and walk with him, leading the boy deeper into the vault. “It is a father’s duty to protect his son, and that is a duty that I believe should be carried out by whatever means necessary. And there are times when keeping certain…difficult truths hidden from his child is the best means of providing that protection.”

The One-Eyed All-father pauses in front of one of the relics, and Loki finds himself looking at the Casket of Ancient Winters, that item of power which Odin had taken from Jotunheim a decade ago. He starts just slightly as Odin rests a heavy, firm, but gentle hand on his shoulder, the old man’s tone rich with a soft-spoken gravitas.

“…And yet, there also comes a time when such protection may do more to harm than help.”

Loki shakes his head slowly, clearly uncomprehending. “I…I don’t understand, Father. What kinds of truths do you speak of?”

“On this day,” Odin says, seemingly ignoring his son’s query, “we acknowledge your arrival at the age of ten--still quite young for one of us, yet old enough to understand. Soon you will set out on your journey into manhood, and there are certain truths you must be made aware of before that happens.”

A rather bewildered frown has taken up residence on Loki’s face, but instead of asking any of the plethora of questions bubbling up inside him, he simply nods, waiting for the king to continue.

Odin’s hand tightens its grip on the boy’s shoulder, as if somehow hoping that holding on to him physically will keep him from pulling away emotionally when he hears what Odin knows he must tell him. He is so very young still, the King of Asgard thinks sadly, but he knows full well that keeping this from him any longer will only cause Loki more pain in the end. Trust cannot be built on lies.

His smile is sad, his expression faintly distant, as if looking back into the past as he says, “Well you know how this casket came to be here in Asgard, for many a time I have told both you and your brother the tale of that day…and yet, I have never told you all. For the casket was not all that I took from Jotunheim that day.” Closing his eye briefly, he forces himself to look down and meet those vivid green eyes, watching the mix of confusion and curiosity on Loki’s face as he continues. “Amongst the rubble I found a baby, small for a giant’s offspring. Abandoned. Suffering. Left to die. Laufey’s son.”

Laufey’s son. Loki silently mouths the words, his eyes gone wide, his face pale as Odin adds, to ensure that there can be no mistaking the meaning of what he’s just said, “That baby was you, Loki.”

That thin shoulder wrenches out of Odin’s grasp violently and Loki takes a few hastily half-stumbling steps backwards, fear, anger, and disbelief warring for dominance in his expression.

“Laufey? The king of the Frost Giants?” The dark-haired boy makes a noise that’s probably meant to be a laugh, though it sticks in his throat, coming out as more of a choking, breathy huff. “Impossible! Look at me! I’m Asgardian, and YOU are my—”

Moving with a warrior’s speed and fluid grace, Odin lunges forward, catching the boy’s wrist in a gentle but deceptively firm grasp. It’s just about the only thing about this that’s gentle, however, but there is no easy way to learn some lessons. A heartbeat later he’s hauled the boy forward, pressed Loki’s hand to the Casket of Ancient Winters, palm flat against one glowing, cerulean-shot side.

…And as they both watch, Loki’s hand turns every bit as blue as that casket and the glow of the whirling power contained therein. Loki starts, gives a gasp, a low cry, his hand flexing and twisting, clawlike, as he tries to pull away from the box, and almost immediately Odin releases his grip on the boy’s forearm. The shuddering ten-year-old snatches his hand back, reflexively moving to cradle it against himself, then seems to think better of that. Instead he stares at his fingers in horror, watching as the blue bleeds away, his whole hand gradually changing back to the regular pale, fleshy tone he’s used to.

But not its real, true colour.

He draws a slow, shivering breath and as he keeps staring, his hand starts to shake. “…I…I’m a m-monster!” he whispers unsteadily, an electric jolt of panic and red-hot terror slamming into him as tears prickle at the backs of his eyes, because he’s never felt so lost and helpless and alone and he’d run and run and never look back if only his feet didn’t feel heavy as iron blocks—

—And suddenly Loki finds himself engulfed in a swath of rich fabric, strong arms pulling him in for a rough but honest embrace. He can probably count on one hand the times he’s seen his fath—the All-father, the King (but not his king)—be so openly demonstrative with his affection. Pats on the back or head were to be had aplenty, and hand-holding wasn’t uncommon either, but close, tight embraces like this are rare indeed; but he needs the comfort, needs something to ground him too much to be all that surprised or to push or pull away. Instead his cheek presses tight against the scale mail Odin always wears beneath his robes, his eyes squeezing shut as his arms come up to reflexively return the embrace. He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to show any kind of weakness, especially now, but he feels numb, he can’t breathe, it feels as if all the world and even the very ground he’d stood on have been jerked out from under him, and he can’t help it.

“No,” Odin says with a soft sort of fierceness, holding him close and stroking his hair with surprising amount of tenderness. “You are my son. You will always be my son.”

There’s more than a hint of protective possessiveness there, and were he older, Loki might resist it, might resent it or at least question it. But here and now, the feeling of being wanted, being claimed and cared about, is more than enough to satisfy his child’s mind and ways of thinking. The power and absolute certainty in Odin’s voice, so familiar and trustworthy, is enough to cause those seemingly-irresistible tears to cut off like a lock cutting off water in a canal, abruptly if not quite cleanly. Face still buried against Odin’s side, Loki swallows hard, blinking back the remains of his tears, then pulls away just enough to look up into that grizzled face and its single iron-grey eye. “…Why?” he manages, the question quiet and thickly spoken. “It was right after a battle, and you’d already killed all those Frost Giants that day…so why did you save me?”

Odin lets him pull away from the embrace, but his hand stays atop the boy’s head, keeping contact, keeping him close. “War is a terrible business, with much lost on either side. You were an innocent child, and I could not leave you to die. Even then I could see that was not to be your Fate.” He gives the slightest of smiles. “And truthfully, it is and has always been my hope that one day we can unite our kingdoms, bring about an alliance, a permanent peace…through you.”

Loki is still shaking beneath the All-father’s hand, still shell-shocked and semi-disbelieving, but it’s obvious that thoughts are racing behind those wide green eyes, that he’s already acknowledging and accepting and assimilating this new information, filing it away, comparing it with what he knows of himself. So far he hasn’t really noticed many differences between himself and the other children his age, though he always has been more inclined to spend time alone, to pass a day reading, to think things out rather than simply throw himself head (or fist) first at any problem that arises. None of that fits with any of what little he knows about Frost Giants--quite the opposite, rather--and yet…

As Odin watches the swift flicker of ideas, emotions, and eventual understanding in his adoptive son’s expression, those green eyes suddenly snap up, focusing on him with an almost shocking intensity. “Who else? Who else knows of this?”

“Your mother and Heimdall are the only others in all of Asgard who know.”

A shrewd looks comes over the boy’s face. “Thor doesn’t know, then?”

Odin shakes his head. “Your brother is young yet. He is still at an age where his eyes see everything in only black or white. If he were told of this now, there is a chance he would not be able to accept it, for he cannot see Frost Giants as anything but as they are told of in warriors’ tales: a dangerous enemy.”

Loki lowers his eyes, brow furrowing at the memory of Thor grinning, fiercely proclaiming his intent to kill all the Frost Giants--monsters, he’d called them monsters--when he became king. Would Thor seek to kill me as well, if he knew? he wonders, hands balling into fists at his sides at the thought. Young as they both are, Thor has always been the better fighter: in their daily sparring sessions, and especially whenever their arguments or sibling rivalry devolved into an all-out scuffle that relied solely on strength, the older brother had always proved the victor. If Thor ever came after him in earnest…

As if reading his younger son’s mind, Odin tilts Loki’s head back, regaining the boy’s full attention along with eye contact, compassion and reassurance filling his words. “…But he loves you, Loki. A brotherly bond is not one easily broken, and the strength and depth of his devotion is such that I believe there will come a time when you will be able tell Thor of this without fear of any negative repercussions. But that time is yet to come, and so I strongly advise that you hold onto this knowledge for now—not because there is any shame in it, but because he is not yet ready.” Odin sees the sheen of unshed tears in his younger son’s eyes, but there is hope there as well, of an almost desperate sort. “You are closest to him, nearest his heart, and so the decision of when to tell him of this, if ever, I leave in your hands alone.”

To be accepted for what he is--despite what he is, is what Loki really thinks, though he’s too young still to really recognise the difference--to be acknowledged, and loved, and known, to be understood and still be received with open arms. The idea is a little frightening, a little off-putting, but he can’t deny that he wants it just the same.

“…Father.” That name is a lie, he knows that now, yet it still passes his lips as easily as ever. “Do you really think I will be able to tell him some day?”

That shade of sadness, regret--pity?--is back in the All-father’s smile, but again his words are spoken to comfort, and this time they carry such a weight of conviction that Loki accepts them without question:

“Blood is strong indeed, but some things--some bonds--go deeper than blood.” Ruffling the boy’s dark hair, the All-father lets his hand drop to the boy’s back, guiding him towards the stairs and up out of the weapons vault. “You’ll tell him one day.”

Though how he deals with it will be up to Thor, Odin adds to himself as the doors close behind them with a low-echoing boom. He has faith in both of his sons, but far-sighted as he is, even the All-father cannot see all futures.

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{Chapter II}